


Prove To Me

by mechanistmacha (SaturnJay), saccharinespice, SaturnJay



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Masturbation, Maybe foursomes too, Multi, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Rufus took the crown, Sad Sylvain Jose Gautier, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Slut-Shaming, Sylvain Jose Gautier Needs A Hug, Sylvain Jose Gautier's Father's Bad Parenting, Sylvain's Birthday 2020, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnJay/pseuds/mechanistmacha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saccharinespice/pseuds/saccharinespice, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnJay/pseuds/SaturnJay
Summary: Sylvain is underappreciated and feels unloved by everyone; his family, his friends, and especially himself. But through one last ditch effort to pursue what he believes he truly wants, he finds a reason for living instead.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Mentioned Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan, Mentioned Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Dorothea Arnault, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	1. Serious

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a movie/musical. You know the one.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Slut-shaming (self?), sad Sylvain

Ingrid wasn't just anyone, so when she arrived at Sylvain's with her birthday gift and her date, the guards just let her walk right in. Bernadetta was already there, having brought the latest chapter of her book for Sylvain to read, claiming it wasn't an adequate enough gift, and having already been talked down from the proverbial ledge with a showering of praise. Sylvain loved her writing and always had.

But he was more excited about a visit from Felix that had been promised later that evening with the mention of a 'talk.'

"Sylvain," Ingrid sighed, smearing her hand down her face as he tried on the beautiful green tunic she'd brought for him. "Just... don't get your hopes up. You know Felix's 'talks' aren't usually a good thing."

"Yeah," Dorothea agreed, twirling a golden lock of Ingrid's hair around her elegant fingers like she was nesting a braided basket. "He won't be nice just because it's your birthday." She'd been cooing over how good Sylvain looked in the earrings she brought him, pretty and gold. They complemented the green of the tunic, the apple red of his hair, and the eagerness in the molten heat of his eyes.

"Felix scares me," Bernadetta whispered from the corner. "He's like a cat who only thinks of murder."

“That’s all cats, honey,” Dorothea tittered back.

Sylvain stood before the looking glass, admiring the earrings he had been gifted, watching them twinkle over his broad shoulders, how they shone against the fur lined collar of his new tunic. Of course Ingrid knew just what color looked best on him, they'd known each other for _ eons.  _ He collected Bernadetta--it was simple with her being so small--and set her on the vanity like a cute teddy bear.

"He's just a real softy," Sylvain promised her, "He wouldn't hurt anyone."

That was a lie, really. Felix was sharp as the steel he favored. Sharp, beautiful, deadly. Nothing about him was soft. Not really. Though Sylvain imagined that perhaps he was soft around him, that the edge to his shoulders eased, that the snap to his tongue quieted around him. Sylvain had a very vivid imagination.

"I think it's good this time! His eyes get...  _ warm _ when he looks at me sometimes, and he keeps working his lips like he wants to tell me something, and maybe, maybe he'll tell me today what's on his mind. On his heart."

He turned to them with a bright, sweet smile, so, so hopeful.

Ingrid and Dorothea exchanged a look that lasted perhaps a bit too long. Honestly, Ingrid was surprised that, whatever Felix wanted to discuss with Sylvain, he hadn't told her first. He told her everything, everything that he didn't share with Sylvain, but he had been rather busy since the insurrection after all. It wasn't every day that a King was assassinated and his son ousted as the next heir. Rodrigue was furious, and Felix was driven to insane lengths to become stronger, even more so than before.

Still. "I hope for your sake that you're right," she said quietly, and Dorothea just nodded along, agreeing with her headstrong other half.

From the vanity, Bernadetta perched, hugging her knees. "Sylvain, um... Y-you don't think Felix is mad about the uh... The Lady Rowe, do you?"

Count Rowe's daughter was currently shut up in her lavish tower room, bemoaning Sylvain's betrayal of her heart... Or whatever it was that she sent in her last scathing letter. Count Rowe himself had been most displeased, enough that he'd gone to Margrave Gautier himself. Sylvain's father was still very pissed, but he hadn't yelled at him today, at least. Being his birthday and all.

Sylvain, however, paused. Lady  _ who? _ Oh,  _ her. _

His cheeks stained pink as he turned aside. Sylvain thought he had been clear about their relationship--two stressed young nobles having a fling, relieving their tension. He thought he had been clear when he told her that they were not going to be exclusive.  _ ‘Exclusive’ _ didn't make sense to Sylvain. No other creatures were exclusive in the animal kingdom, and furthermore... His heart was full of love to give, why keep it to himself? Or for just one other person?

It was only after he was found with another willing partner--Count Rowe's  _ son _ \--that suddenly she seemed to care. Somehow, it ached worse that Sylvain hadn't heard from  _ him. _ He thought they had something special together. He thought both of them had.

His eyes turned down miserably, enough that Bernadetta reached out and tugged the edge of his tunic.

"I mean, maybe," he said, trying to brighten the mood. Ever the host, even on his birthday. "But it's been ages."

Now it was Bernadetta's turn to exchange a look with Ingrid over Sylvain's shoulder, but it was more on the  _ 'help me' _ end. Ingrid stood up, much to Dorothea's dismay.

"Well, as long as it's in the past," Ingrid said with more conviction than she believed. "Then I'm sure Felix will let it slide. Maybe smack you once or twice. Besides, he's got bigger things on his plate, you know? What with Rufus' takeover and all."

They all knew the former crown prince, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, by name and vaguely by face. But even though they were all the children of noblemen, they hadn't spent much time with him. Lambert and Patricia had kept to themselves before their untimely deaths, so their son had as well.

Still, literally anybody would have been a better King than Rufus. His coronation had just passed, though, so it was official. That had been where Sylvain had met Lady Valentina Rowe, along with her mysteriously beautiful adopted son...

"When's he coming anyway?" Dorothea broke through Sylvain's reverie. "I mean, I expect someone like Felix not to have a sense of manners, but it's been two hours."

“He said he’d be late.” That was normal too. Sylvain’s thoughts drifted a bit to Felix’s new responsibilities. Of course, the Prince... he supposed Dimitri was a Duke now, of sorts, given the coronation. Surely they wouldn’t completely just leave him to be a commoner? Banished to the back of the room, declared too young, too traumatized, in some way unfit. There had been sympathetic glances from the adults, who looked upon him with pity. Maybe it was just that awful haircut, but he did look pretty upset. They’d briefly played together as children on a handful of carefully curated play dates, but it was always under supervision. He wouldn’t exactly call them pals.

Sylvain turned his attention to his mirror, fussing with his red curls, trying to tame one just so over his brow. Almost there. But something was missing.

“Necklace? Too much? Should I unlace my tunic to show my chest a bit? Dorothea, what do you think?” He turned, picking at it. “I wouldn’t want him to beg me to bend him over the table right away, you know.” He winked directly at Ingrid, knowing she would roll her eyes, but such was his way. Really, he just wanted to be looked at, be  _ seen. _ To have eyes on him; amber, and every color in the rainbow. As long as he was being seen, he could not be forgotten, after all. “Maybe a necklace  _ and _ a bare chest?”

Dorothea laughed sweetly, but her antics were fond. Sylvain didn't hear the edge of pity in her voice, of sympathy. She, too, knew what it was to desire to be seen and remembered. But she was older now, wiser, and had given that up. "Just the bare chest, love," she advised, standing to fuss over the laces of the tunic for him. "You're handsome enough without the jewelry. Too much will seem flashy, you know, and Felix is not the type to like flashy."

"He's not the type to like anything but a blade," Bernadetta sighed. "At least, that's my impression."

Ingrid jumped to Felix's defense; he was one of her two closest friends after all. "You just... Have to get to know him, that's all. It may not seem like it but he's got a softer side."

Bernadetta and Dorothea just sort of murmured their assent, not wanting to contradict, but not really believing it either.

A polite knock at the door heralded one of Margrave Gautier's messengers. "My lord," he bowed rather stiffly. Sylvain had slept with him once, and the man may or may not have gotten a bit too attached and had to be put back in his place. But that was months ago now, surely he was over it. "Your father requests your presence. He says it's important."

Ingrid shrugged when Sylvain looked at her. "Well... Maybe it's a birthday present?" she offered. Unlikely.

"Tell him I'm not ready yet," Sylvain huffed, preening at his hair.

He fished about in the vanity and located a strange little tube, opening it to smear on his mouth. Colorless, but his lips began to swell from a mild irritant. Just enough to be attractive.

He gave his mirror a kiss and stretched his arms over his head enough to make his bones creak--and also to see how much this tunic rippled and folded at movement; just had to check, to use to his advantage later.

"Alright, fine, I'm coming, I'm coming." He gave Bernadetta a kiss on the top of her head, mussing her mop of hair. "I'll have a plate sent up if you'd rather hole up in here, Bernie-bear." 

He strolled after his father's aide, wondering what the old man wanted now. He hadn't even deemed it fit to say good morning to him earlier, why should he care?

Yet he  _ did _ care. Everyone’s approval mattered to him. Even people he absolutely despised. He cared enough that he quickened his pace.

Margrave James Theodore Gautier was getting older, but conflict with the Sreng kept him fit and hearty. Not to mention, being a Margrave, he ate well enough. He was the spitting image of Sylvain, an older, greyer mirror. He stood, arms stiff behind his back in a mockery of relaxed posing before the window. Another grey and dismal day in Northern Faerghus.

He barely even turned when Sylvain entered the room, just dismissed the guard (whose name Sylvain did not remember) with a curt little nod. The poor man bowed before leaving them alone with the snap of a door.

Closed in with his old man. It was close--not quite, but almost as suffocating as the mossy, wet walls of the well Sylvain visited every night in his dreams.

"Sylvain," he said, turning around with the same strain in his voice as in his eyes. "Happy birthday, my son."

Sylvain actually bowed before his father, his head ducked in respect. He wasn't about to be an ass in front of him. He didn't want to get disowned on his birthday, too. Not like his brother. But what did it matter? He had a Crest and Miklan had not. That was all the Margrave cared about.

"Father," he said, "You wanted to see me?" He knew better than to think it was only a birthday wish. He could only hope it was nothing too awful. He found himself subconsciously trying to cover the little gap of skin at the neck of his tunic, as if it might offend the man.

The Margrave didn't even really look at Sylvain for long. It had been that way since he'd grown into what his parents called a 'scoundrel,' and they didn't say it fondly either. He didn't gesture for Sylvain to sit, and he didn't take a seat either, but moved towards the tall armoire in the corner of his office, which was as stern and grey as the man's chin.

"I did." He spoke like the crack of a steel rod against something fragile, something like Sylvain's ego... Or spine. He'd never hit Sylvain. Not once. But Sylvain had witnessed him hit Miklan plenty of times. "As it is your birthday, your mother and I have come to a decision. You play around far too much. You take nothing seriously." He paused and fixed Sylvain with a cold stare that paralyzed more than made shiver. "Like your good-for-nothing brother."

Sylvain ground his teeth, trying to level his chin with the top of the Margrave's desk, keep his brown eyes fixed on the back of the room, not let them wander. He knew  _ exactly  _ what was in that armoire. It took all of his self-control not to run from it. It had terrified him, given him nightmares as a child as Miklan had shaken it over his head, taunting. Sylvain couldn't even blame the bastard. If he were Miklan, he'd probably torment him, too, though he wasn't sure he had the stomach to do the things Miklan had done to him. He shifted his feet; which could have been insulting to the wrong person.

"Sir," was all he could say. 

It wasn't like his father was lying--but  _ serious? _ Of course he took his future seriously, but he was still young, only just graduated. Couldn't he be free for just a little longer? Just a little?

His father surveyed him a bit longer. Clearly he was not satisfied with this answer, but he seemed to know he'd get nothing more, no matter how long he waited. His eyes turned iron, just like that, as he pivoted on his boot in practiced military style and opened the locked wooden doors.

"That is why I am entrusting this to you."

As the man put his hands on the long slant of dormant bone, it awakened, jumped to his hand and twitched wickedly, a bright and ugly glow emanating from the core, the spherical Crest stone which adorned it like a beating heart, just as visceral and just as red.

The Lance of Ruin. The only thing Miklan ever wanted and only Sylvain could have. The weapon that sucked the lifeblood from its wielded and used it to deal devastation and despair, the weapon that remembered every scream of terror as it pulsated and gleamed over its victims’ corpses. The bane of the people of Sreng.

An icon of the bane of Sylvain's existence.

It throbbed in syncopated rhythm with his blood. He could feel it calling to him across the room, but he could not run. Sylvain had his hands crossed behind his back in matching military step, and was grateful that closing his fists that tight could keep them from shaking.

Every wink, every kiss, every  _ touch _ was to put distance between himself and that thing. The thing spasmed, wriggling,  _ wanting _ him.

The Lance of Ruin;  _ ruin _ was all it left in its wake and he wanted none of it. Nothing kind, nothing beautiful. And it was meant, made, for his hands. Or rather, he was made for  _ it.  _ No matter how beautiful he tried to make himself, this was what he was destined for, to become the wielder of death itself, a scythe of bone and curses. If he touched it, held it, would anyone ever want to hold him again?

Maybe, maybe if he fumbled it, his father would take it away, and he would still have a chance--

But that was implying he  _ deserved _ one.

Sylvain bowed deeply. "I am unworthy of this honor, father."

It was the right thing to say.

The Margrave held it, not delicately, but careful as he marched towards him. "It is a powerful responsibility, Sylvain. The Srengi have been peaceful for the past two years, but that will not last. You have a duty to protect the border, to protect your people, to protect all of Fódlan."

He was not passing on a responsibility so much as dictating his future. Sylvain might fool around now, but he would not always have that option. And denying it was not only selfish, it would deprive the border of any semblance of stability. If he neglected his duties as he had, hundreds would die. Perhaps thousands. But he intended to neglect it a little longer.

The Lance of Ruin was held out to him, hand to fist, father to son, Crest to Crest.

His father was not dead yet. He could still be  _ Sylvain _ and not  _ the Margrave _ for just a little while longer. For now, though, he had to silence that cringing longing of the weapon reaching out to him, to his young, virile blood.

It was a miracle of the goddess his hand didn't shake as he took the ancient weapon of their family in both hands, his head still bowed over it.

"I expect you to straighten yourself out, Sylvain," the Margrave turned his back again. "Your friends are already surpassing you. Young Lady Galatea has been knighted recently. You are twenty-three years old. It is time to  _ act.  _ To take the place you were meant for.”

That was as much a dismissal as anything else.

Sylvain wanted to snap at him, tell him how hard Ingrid had to work, everything she had to come against and how incapable  _ he _ was of that. Ingrid was a firestorm, a tempest. How could he be like that? He felt the thing in his hands squirm, and it made his gut churn.

"I do hope you are well?" he asked instead, uneasy. Was his old man planning on handing the margraviate to him any time soon? Sylvain felt chains of responsibility wind their way around his ankles.

His old man huffed. "Well enough, son."  _ Son. _ That's what he was. A Crestbearer and someone to pass burdens onto. A pack mule. A brood mare. At least if people went after him for his beauty it wasn't his blood. "Go back to your friends and think on what I have said." He curled his lip at the word  _ friends; _ Sylvain knew he didn't approve of Dorothea, commoner and bad influence that she was.

Running with the Lance of Ruin down a hallway was not exactly a good choice, but Sylvain had at least enough sense to hold it to his chest, to not let it get in the way as he  _ sprinted _ down the corridors to his room. He threw open his own great armoire, and stuffed the ancient relic inside, locking it within, squeezed between cloaks, furs, and tunics. He had almost completely forgotten Bernadetta was there as he leaned against the doors, near panting, sweat beading on his brow.

Its heartbeat still came through the wood, thrumming.

"S-S-S- _ Sylvain?!" _ Bernadetta squeaked, easing off of the vanity, wincing at him. "Were you just... Running with a weapon?" She was already wringing her hands and backing away like she always did.

It was only through careful conditioning that Sylvain didn't let out a squawk. He calmed himself as much as he could, but his eyes were still somewhat wild as he approached her, kissing her forehead. "Don't worry about it, Bernie-bear. Just some dusty old birthday present. I'll bring you some cake, okay? You know where my  _ ‘special’ _ bookshelf is." At least  _ someone  _ read the same smutty novels he did.

He had to get  _ out. _ He had to--to be touched by other hands, people that were  _ alive, _ with  _ real _ heartbeats, not some repulsive facsimile.

Hedonism was one way to put it.

When Sylvain Jose Gautier descended upon his party, he was all but surrounded by eager young people, knowing his reputation, knowing his skill with lips, hips, and fingers, a skill he was all too happy to provide. He indulged in wine, hoping that it would dull the terror of responsibility. He was fine--he was loved, wasn't he? That would keep him from becoming a monster, he was fine. He was surrounded by people. He was  _ fine. _

The Gautier ballroom became a blur of colorful gowns and a haze of laughter, a smear of beautiful people. He felt the smile on his face stiffen like rictus, as if he were trying to convince himself it were real.

Ingrid could tell something was wrong, but she couldn't, for the life of her, seem to get any answers out of him, so in kindness, she didn't scold him for making eyes at just about anyone who crossed his path. The lesser nobles wanted his status, and the rest just wanted a wild ride for the night or a few before he got bored of them.

His parents didn't come down at all. They didn't want to see this debauchery.

And then Felix arrived, slipping in, silent as a wraith, without the fanfare Sylvain would have preferred to give him. As usual, he wasn't dressed for a party, but Sylvain didn't care. He was here,  _ he was here. _ He'd come to a party, which he never enjoyed, for  _ him. _

Sylvain only saw him when Dorothea inclined her head to the corner, where Felix was sulking, pretending not to watch Sylvain at all. But he was there, wasn't he? Nothing else mattered, nothing seemed so daunting when Felix was near.

Perhaps Sylvian was wound up from the wine. Perhaps he was just relieved to see a friendly--well, friendly as it got with him--face. Felix! Felix,  _ his _ Felix!

He rushed--staggering a little on his boots to greet him, his brown eyes bright with relief, with joy. "Felix! You made it! I'm so happy to see you!" It was his birthday, dammit. He'd allow himself to hug Felix tight around the shoulders. "I'm  _ so _ glad you're here!" He would have to tell him about the Lance, let him pick at it--Felix himself was set to inherit his Father's shield, after all.

Felix stiffened in his grasp, but it was no big deal. He always did that. The Fraldarius family was not big on public--or even private--affection. But the fact that he was here at all was proof that he cared. And Sylvain swore he saw those sharp eyes dart to the bare plane of his flesh. Sylvain had a right to be proud. He'd inherited a strong, handsome structure, and he knew it. Perhaps this night would be a good one after all.

"Of course I made it," Felix grumbled, just like always. His moodiness should sour all the wine in the room, but Sylvain was over the damned moon to see him. He folded his arms over his chest, still in his plainest training clothes. At least they were clean. "Guess you survived another year, then."

Sylvain hadn't seen him much lately. They'd grown up side by side, practically brothers with Ingrid, but since Glenn... Ah, but no. This was a party. Not the time to dwell on such things.

And in Felix's letter, he had said he wanted to  _ talk.  _ Sylvain was practically vibrating.

"Yeah, no thanks to Ingrid," he said, teasing, as he took the opportunity to pick him up in the hug, walk a few steps before he set him back down, just to prove he could. "But here I stand. You must've ridden all day, please, have something to eat. The wine is good."

A glass was wobbled toward him, Sylvain’s cheeks pink in delight. His hair bounced and gleamed, helped by a toss here and there with a purposeful hand. He swayed his hips when he walked, swanning like a goddamn peacock, his neck stretched, proud as he led Felix to the feast table.

Was Felix nervous?  _ Nervous? _ Was that why he gripped his hands harder? Had he come to give Sylvain the only gift he could ever wish? Just time with Felix, his gaze, the privilege of watching his iron walls fall.

Felix didn't yelp and swat when he was picked up and dragged this time--a true treat. Things were finally going Sylvain's way. Screw his father, screw responsibility. Tonight was for him. They were adults, fresh graduates of the Garreg Mach Officers Academy, he was beautiful and confident enough to command the attention of everyone in the room, Felix was beside him, and Sylvain felt like a god walking among common men.

Felix even drank a little, which was unusually permissive of him. Ingrid and Dorothea came over to laugh and tease, and Sylvain got the privilege to see Felix flush, so sweet, and look away with that infamous pout.

"Don't you two look  _ cozy _ together?" Dorothea crooned, batting her lashes at them both and grinning wide enough to swallow an apple in one go.

Sylvain wondered if he was going to be struck down by the Goddess that very night for flying too close to the stars. He wouldn't have cared; everything was perfect.. Sylvain lounged on a chaise, an arm around Felix, squeezing him close, rubbing his shoulder with wandering, eager hands.

"Yeah, we could be  _ cozier _ though, couldn’t we, Fe?" He gave him a languid wink, his lips still a bit swollen from the plumper he used earlier, and he was very aware how kissable he looked right then.

It seemed Felix was aware of how kissable he looked too because in response to that suggestive question, he suddenly stood up and turned away, lips in a thin, tight line like he was holding himself back from something.

"Sylvain, we need to talk."

And without any other explanation, he whipped his dark hair over his shoulder--he'd worn it down, thick about his neck--and marched off to the balcony, where no doubt a single glare from him would scare off anyone else who happened to be hiding there.

Ingrid glanced at Sylvain meaningfully, but her expression was more anxious than unreadable like she obviously meant. She just shrugged and returned to Dorothea and her wine.

This wasn't unusual for Felix--Sylvain trotted right after him like an eager foal, his eyes large and sweet, hopeful, always so  _ hopeful _ that maybe this time the things he touched wouldn't turn around and bite him. Someone might have asked why he cared so much for Felix when he bit him every time. But that never mattered.

"What is it, Fe? Are you okay?"

The very moment that the balcony door closed behind Sylvain, he leapt from the stars to the great beyond; Felix seized the front of the green tunic and dragged Sylvain down against him, his lips pressed so tightly to his that Sylvain could feel the flat of his teeth behind them. So rough, so aggressive... That was what he liked about Felix. Though he was determined to deny it, Sylvain knew he was shy about feeling too much, being too soft.

They'd shared half a dozen kisses before, never with any promises behind them, just helpless attraction and hope, but not one of them was like this. Not one of them felt like it might mean something  _ more; _ maybe it would this time, maybe instead of just avoiding Sylvain for a week after he kissed him, Felix would actually say the words Sylvain was so desperate to hear.

_ Let's be together. _

But when he finally broke away for air, the words he said instead were, "I'm leaving."

Sylvain was so dizzied from the kiss, his arms still locked around Felix, cradling the back of his head. Maybe he had misheard.

"What?" Sylvain said, trying to come back down to earth, "Leaving where? Tonight? Don't go, Fe, your old man can wait a night..." He toyed with his hair, daring to kiss the sharp angle of his jaw.

Felix let him for once. Let him hold on, let him pursue. "No, Sylvain," he sighed, and he looked down at the hands resting on his chest, toying with Sylvain's tunic laces. "I'm leaving Faerghus." He looked away. "That's what I came to say. To tell you goodbye."

It was as though all the air had condensed into Sylvain's lungs and weighed them into his stomach.

"L-leaving  _ Faerghus?" _ Sylvain stepped back, breathless, sick. The Goddess' bolts of lightning had struck him through the heart, and he wished she had done it just a single moment sooner, when Felix was kissing him and everything was glorious and grand. This was cruel, too cruel.

"W-what--to  _ where? _ What,  _ Sreng? _ Fe, what are--what are you talking about, you're the heir to Fraldarius, you--you can't just  _ leave _ \--don't-- What about your--your plans--"

Sylvain surged forward again, clutched onto him, his voice breaking, betraying him as it spilled out of his mouth.

"What about  _ me?" _

Felix sighed, long and heavy, and he pushed Sylvain's hands off of him. "Don't be so dramatic, idiot," he said quietly, rolling his eyes. "Why in the fuck world I go to Sreng? I'm going back to the monastery."

"Garreg Mach? But we just graduated… Are--are you going back to  _ teach?" _ He gestured wildly behind him. At what, even Sylvain wasn’t sure.

Felix stared up at him. "What? Are you insane?" He shook his head, resting his forehead on his hand. "Sylvain... something's coming." He looked back over the balcony to the fields beyond, normally blanketed with snow. Only this time of year, for about two weeks only, they were in full bloom, tiny yellow flowers waving in the summer wind. Sylvain used to think they were for his birthday. Felix hadn't been the one to correct him. "Surely you must feel it. It could be war." He rested his elbows on the railing. "I'm going to be ready this time. If there's a war... it won't take anything else from me."

Sylvain watched his face transform from mild annoyance to utter, faraway grief. He’d been with him during that time. He wasn’t going to abandon Felix now, no matter what it took, no matter what he had to do. "Then... Then I'll come too." He straightened his back, raised his chin. Long ago, they had made a promise, sacred to them. This was only one other step.

Felix snorted; not the sort of answer one would hope to hear to boost one's confidence.  _ "You? _ Sylvain, come on." He was smiling now, mocking. He didn't believe him. Yet another person who didn't have faith in him. "You barely passed enough classes to graduate. There's no way you could undergo the Knights' training."

Sylvain fell back to his heels, his jaw slack. "I'm--Fe, I'm good with the lance. I'm--I'm  _ serious." _ His father's words were echoing in his mind, the Lance of Ruin rattling within his skull. "I'm serious, Fe. I'm. I'm coming too." His confidence was shattering into pieces, tiny shards, littering his feet, revealing the fear beneath.

Felix's smile died, but it wasn't because of any conviction on Sylvain's part. It was because now it was  _ his  _ turn to become serious.

"You? Serious? Sylvain," he said, and his tone had lost any sort of fondness. "Don't waste everyone's time. You might be good with a lance, but you never train. You complain about spending even half an hour sparring. This isn't meant for people like you."

_ People like you. _

Sylvain blurted out the first poison that came to his mind. "People like  _ what, _ Felix?" he hissed. "Say it."

Damn him-- _say it out loud._ **_Say it._** Let him take the blow and have it be done with, let the wound sink in and end him.

Felix tensed every minute muscle of his arms, his hands curling to fists by his sides as he pulled away from the balcony. He hadn't come here to fight, not on Sylvain's birthday. He had just come to say goodbye, and now...

He looked at him, frustrated, frowning. But he wasn't going to say it. He held back Not here. Not now. "Sylvain..."

**_"Say it!"_ ** Sylvain snapped, raising his voice. "I'm a  _ whore! _ I'm some--some  _ slut _ not worth the future Shield of Faerghus' time! Say to me all the promises you made to me were worthless because I... I what? I'm not  _ enough _ for you?!"

It bubbled over, boiling, frothing.

Felix never reacted positively to being shouted at. He had many admirable traits, but no matter what, ease of social interaction was not one of them. No one could ever accuse Felix of being the best one to deescalate a situation, and once lit, he was nothing but the shortest fuse. His fists tightened even more and he knew before he even opened his mouth that he was going to regret all he said.

The thing was, he never believed any of that. Sure, Sylvain slept around and it was annoying having to deal with the aftermath of such encounters, but Felix didn’t give a damn about it. He’d never once called Sylvain a whore or a slut--he’d never even  _ thought  _ those words. But he was prone to fury and Sylvain was such an easy catalyst.

"Enough for  _ me?!" _ he shouted back. "Nothing and no one is enough for  _ you! _ You’re insatiable, and I wouldn't even give a shit except you add nothing  _ positive  _ to the world with it!" He was shaking now. Trembling with anger. Failing to stifle all of his grievances that he'd had with Sylvain since he was old enough to have grievances. "All you do is lie and cheat and mess with people!" he jabbed an accusing finger into Sylvain's chest. "You coast on your wealth and your Crest. You never  _ try  _ to be anything, you never  _ do _ anything except make problems for me and Ingrid and everyone around you! Don't think I didn't know your father gave you the Lance of Ruin. You train so little, I can’t imagine he was in his right mind when he gave it to you. What are you planning on doing with it? You going to  _ fuck _ it!?"

His chest heaved and his gut twisted. Oh. Oh no. He hadn't meant to say all that. He hadn't. He hadn't meant it.

Sylvain was still. Very still, as Felix watched the very light extinguished from his eyes. His mouth curved in a soulless smile, and he spoke with quiet clarity. "Maybe. Is that what you want me to do with it?" he asked, his voice the regular musical tone it normally carried, now discordant with grief.

_ Maybe it'll kill me, _ he thought, but barely had the presence of mind to keep himself from saying it. He brought nothing positive to the world. Nothing. It confirmed his worst suspicions; that the laughter and bright eyes people greeted him with, the joyous atmosphere he seemed to radiate were all lies, all empty. He brought nothing to the world. Even Felix said so.

"Have a safe trip to Garreg Mach," he said quietly, and departed the balcony.

Felix was too stunned to even reach out, to stop him, to do anything to fix what he had done. Later, when Dorothea and Bernadetta had tried to console him through the locked door, Ingrid returned to the hallway with his room and told them all quietly that Felix had gone home.

He didn't even say goodbye.


	2. What You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His father thought he was worthless--what else was new? Miklan knew he was worthless; maybe he had better insight than all of them. Now Felix told him he was worthless, and finally he believed.
> 
> No one who had been at his party had cared--who was he? Felix had laughed about him returning to Garreg Mach--now what was he meant to do?
> 
> The Lance wiggled its filigree, bones bumping together. The answer was in front of him this whole time, glowing, squirming.
> 
> He had a completely brilliant plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: non-explicit sex scene (like... a few sentences), slut-shaming
> 
> Sorry it's so damned long, but it's based off a very long song and takes place over the course of a year. Sylvain has to work hard for a long time to prove himself. I tried to cut it down but all the scenes felt essential and I didn't want to cut it up. The other chapters won't be this bad, I promise.

Sylvain allowed no visitors. He gently set Bernadetta on her feet outside his door, and bolted it shut.

What was in his room?

To be fair, his dorm at the Officer's Academy wasn't exactly decorated, but it  _ was  _ a dorm. This was where he lived his whole life. Nowhere were there any records of his achievements; only trinkets from past lovers, gleaming lances lined up, seldom used. Who was he?

A  _ whore.  _ A whore who made problems for other people.

He wandered to the adjacent bath, and began a rudimentary spell to summon water-- cold. Snowmelt, from the mountains. His mouth twisted. Once when he was young, he had wanted to be a wizard. What did he want?

He wanted to belong. To someone. To somewhere.

While the metal tub filled, Sylvain trailed to his armoire, where the Lance of Ruin throbbed within, twitching for its master. Sylvain collected it with light fingers, dimly intrigued by how light it was as he propped it against the wall of the bathroom to watch it squirm, a living, dead thing.

Once the bath was full, he crept inside, still in his new tunic, and curled inside the metal, with only the haunting orange light to see by. Soon his clothing became soaked, sticking to his freezing skin beneath the water, and he sank, up to his ears, his mouth, breathing ripples through his nose across the cool surface.

The well had been smaller. Darker. But this would do.

His father thought he was worthless--what else was new? Miklan  _ knew  _ he was worthless; maybe he had better insight than all of them. Now Felix told him he was worthless, and finally he believed.

Sylvain didn't have the strength to cry, growing numb in the water, deep down to his heart.  _ Worthless. _

No one who had been at his party had cared--who was he? Felix had laughed about him returning to Garreg Mach--now what was he meant to do?

The Lance wiggled its filigree, bones bumping together. The answer was in front of him this whole time, glowing, squirming.

He had a completely brilliant plan.

  
  


The guests had left as soon as Sylvain was gone and they'd exhausted all their gossip about him and Felix and many other partners. Eventually, even Bernadetta and Dorothea had left. He had every reason to think that Ingrid had too, but when he finally came down from his room, he encountered her in the manor's dining hall.

She looked up immediately and her gaze was soft and concerned. "Sylvain," she said, putting her fork and knife down. If she was neglecting to scrape everything off her plate, he knew she was truly worried. "You're up."

"Good morning, Ingrid," he said with strange formality, cunning in his features. "Have you seen my father?" It was never, ever like Sylvain to seek his father. "I have something I need to discuss with him." He thought it might be obvious, with the Lance of Ruin, strung across his back.

Ingrid stood up and approached him warily, as if he might be some insane animal. "Sylvain... No, I haven't seen him this morning, but... do we need to talk about last night? I mean, I talked to Felix too, but he didn't tell me much..."

"Not at all, Ingrid.  _ I," _ he said proudly, "Have a plan." He twirled on his heel as if he were giving a grand presentation. "I'm going to Garreg Mach for knight training. After all, I got through the Officer's Academy, no sweat. So--this is my next step! I'll prove to them I'm--I'm  _ something _ and that I'm serious."

The way he stood with his arms akimbo told everyone around him that he clearly thought this was the greatest idea ever conceived.

Ingrid blinked at him. The few knights, guards, and other staff members who were in the dining hall also tittered behind their hands, but they didn't make a huge effort to hide it. Honestly, they weren't afraid of the Margrave's idiot son.

"Sylvain," Ingrid tried, swallowing. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean... knight training is intense." She would know, she'd been through it. And though she didn't enjoy having to be knighted by the new King, she still wanted to serve Faerghus and its people. "You won't have time for anything else. You have to devote every waking minute to it. And it's even worse at the monastery."

"Well, I've got this," he said, gingerly nudging the Lance of Ruin, which writhed appropriately menacingly at the touch. "And I got into the Officer's Academy. It'll be hard work, but... I think I'm up to the task." He gripped his fists to his chest, so eager it was almost insufferable.

Ingrid swallowed. Were this any other day, had Sylvain not just been shot down from the sky with the arrow of Felix's stinging insults, she would have told him flat-out 'no.' Reminded him how much he hated to work, how the life of a knight was grueling, that someone as bright and charming as Sylvain was meant for better things.

Any day... but not today. She took his arm and gently led him from the room and into an alcove in the hallway for privacy. "Sylvain," she said gently. "I don't know. I mean... this is a big deal. And frankly, I'm not sure you're doing it for the right reasons. In fact, I'm  _ positive _ you're not."

"I'm doing it--"  _ For love _ was a foolish thing to say, wasn't it? But it was true at its core.

He wasn't being loved for who he was right now; not by his family, not by Felix, not really even by his friends or his people. Maybe he never had been loved. Mayhe had never even been a person, not really.

Ingrid could see the clouds cross over those sunny features again, turning his head.

"I'm  _ supposed  _ to be doing this, Ingrid. Maybe I should have been doing it all along. You did. I'm... supposed to be the Margrave one day, aren't I? My people will depend on me. Faerghus, Fódlan." Though it felt like coal against his palms, he gripped tight to the lance, firm. "If I get there, they'll  _ have  _ to understand."

Ingrid swallowed. It wasn't like she didn't love her friend. She wanted nothing but the best for Sylvain. And it wasn't like he was useless with the lance. He wasn't stupid, he didn't lack skill. He just never devoted any time or effort. He hated to, she knew that. He hated doing anything that he didn't get to choose. He was born second, but born better by his blood, and he was one day to be stuffed into the role of Margrave, protector of Faerghus' border for the rest of his life.

Honestly, she didn't want that for him. She wanted him to be happy.

"Sylvain... look," she said, as gently as she could. "A letter arrived from House Bellerose. They're finally presenting their daughter, there's going to be a big ball. Don't you want to go? It'll be fun," she offered, smiling half-heartedly. She could at least try and distract him from these foolish whims. She didn't want him to get rejected again and, with his current talents, they'd never accept him.

How quickly Sylvain forgot--his birthday also heralded the arrival of the social season of Fódlan. Endless parties, presentations, lines of new debutantes to woo; it was Sylvain's favorite season. Yet the heir to Gautier shook his head. "No. If I'm going to get in--I need to pass an exam, right? I have to do this, Ingrid. You can go to the party. Tell me all about it. I bet their feast will be awesome." He tried to smile bravely, as if giving up his favorite time of year was just another sacrifice.

Ingrid had honestly thought that would work, that reminding him the pretty young Bellerose was going to be available for the first time ever would snap him out of this foolish fancy. It wasn't like he'd never see Felix again-probably. Sylvain was just in a little slump, that's all.

"You're serious," she said in awe, searching his face for lack of conviction and finding none. "Sylvain... it will take a long time for you to pass that exam. Even if you did absolutely nothing but train and study, I'd say a whole year at the very least. Are you really sure you want to go through with that? You'll miss  _ two  _ social seasons," she warned.

"Yes, I'm serious. I think it's time I be serious."

Serious was what his father wanted--Felix wanted--and it was what his people needed. He had to get himself together. As he squeezed the Lance of Ruin, its tendrils flared and flailed about over his head like rudders to a terrible boat. "I'll miss a dozen seasons if that's what it takes," he said, grave.

Ingrid wanted to ask 'and then what?' but she held her tongue. Honestly, she gave Sylvain a week before he burned out. But if it took a week for him to give up, she would give it to him. She wasn't yet on active duty anyway. She had time to kill. What better way than to spend it trying to improve Sylvain's morale?

Maybe he'd even stick with it for  _ two  _ weeks.

"Okay," she said pointedly, folding her arms over her chest. "If that's what you really want, I'll help you. You're welcome. But you have to do everything I say, exactly when and  _ how  _ I say it, no matter what it is," she snapped like a commanding officer. "You got that?"

He snapped his boots together and gave a mighty salute. "Yes, Sir Galatea." Unlike his father, he knew to call Ingrid her given title as knight. "Shall I tell the Margrave, or should it be a surprise?"

Ingrid knew Margrave Gautier was sure to take notice if his son started actually living up to his expectations. But if Sylvain went and declared them, then his father might try to intervene, might take advantage and try to put someone else in charge. "Well... you can if you want," she said hesitantly. Honestly, she was mostly worried that the Margrave would get his hopes up only for Sylvain to let him down again when he tired of the training and gave up trying to be a knight. "But I think he'd want to get you a different teacher if he knew."

That wouldn't do. Sylvain shook his red hair and replaced the Lance on his back. With both hands, he gallantly swept up hers and bent to kiss her knuckles, his pale lashes touching the back of her wrists. It really was easy to see how he could drive people wild.

"From now on, the only person I have eyes for is you, my teacher." He lifted his head, just enough to wink at her.

Ingrid rolled her eyes.  _ Yeah, we'll just see about that. _ She wanted to believe in him, honestly she did. But there just wasn't enough incentive in the world to get Sylvain to undergo the intensity of such a training for more than a few weeks. Even Felix, and she knew Sylvain had pined after him since they were old enough to understand what those feelings were.

"Well," she took back her hand, very glad, in that moment, to be absolutely not into men. "Then go spend the rest of the day doing whatever horrible, hedonistic things you like because you won't have that chance again."

"What? We're not starting today?" His broad shoulders slumped; as if somehow, missing a single day would sabotage all of his plans. "Ingrid! I need to start now!"

She huffed and folded her arms. "Sylvain!" she barked, annoyed. "I wasn't even supposed to be here today, I was supposed to go home yesterday with Dorothea. Be grateful I'm helping your sorry ass and leave me a single day to prepare and get my affairs in order!"

As she marched off, she left him wondering how she was able to talk like a brat and a boring adult all at once.

That was going to be it from then on, though, wasn't it? Boring. Adult. He had to leave any sense of fun behind; fun was for children, for people careless of their impact on the world. Sylvain didn't have that option anymore.

So rather than spend the day as Ingrid suggested, flirting with girls, guests of the estate who had come to his party the night before, Sylvain slinked off to the library, a dusty old place, seldom visited except by the book keeper, who knew of Sylvain's nightly escapades--kissing, and more--in the aisles. 

He near tiptoed in, trying not to be seen, but the Lance insisted on being known, and swung one of its lappets to knock over a heavy tome.

The bookkeeper, an old woman with no muscles in her face to smile at all, glared over at him. "Lord Gautier," she said stiffly, noting with curiosity that he was alone and brought the Lance of Ruin with him. "Do try not to wreak havoc in here." Still wasn't as bad as the time that she'd found out he'd ripped some pages out of a book to mop up a mess he'd left with a girl he'd taken in here once.

"No havoc, ma'am, I promise!" He even took off the lance and propped it against her desk in a gesture of goodwill. "And may I say, you are looking  _ radiant  _ today, truly. Have you trimmed your hair?" As with Ingrid, he attempted to take her hand to kiss.

The woman scowled and swiped her hand away before he could reach it. He had truly never spoken to her before this day, and it was very strange to her that he was suddenly here. What could he possibly want? Was he trying to distract her before he defaced some of the priceless tomes?

"May I  _ help  _ you with anything, Lord Gautier?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"I'm looking for books on knighthood? Big ones. Real thick and wordy. You know?" He gestured with his hands about a foot apart, as if he were describing a fish.

Honestly, she just wanted to get back to her side passion of archiving the older books. She should have just pointed them out and let him be on his way, out of her hair. Instead, she demanded, "Why?"

Sylvain pondered the virtues of telling this woman of his plan, but seeing how Ingrid reacted... perhaps it was best to keep that to himself. "Studying. I would... like to pursue knighthood. It would serve my people better." There it was--sincere, if a bit simple.

This woman had even less faith in him than Ingrid did, and that wasn't saying too much. Still, she stared at him for probably longer than was appropriate and then pointed him in the direction. "The fantasies are at the top, the actual manuals are at the bottom of that shelf there," she said, still flat-toned but more curious than she had been before. Surely he wasn't serious? Not Sylvain Jose Gautier.

"Thank you!" he chirped like a happy little redbird, and followed her instructions.

From a distance, she could watch the gears in the young Gautier heir's head turn. The volumes on the top were more colorful, with shiny gold embossed letters, illustrations, even, of handsome knights and their beautiful ladies, tales of chivalry. On the lower shelf were thick, grey textbooks, with little in the way of illustrations but diagrams on sword technique, and palm-width, brick-sized tomes on the theory of knighthood.

His hand danced for a second on the bright fantasy books, but finally strayed down, and collected the enormous books by the armful.

The bookkeeper shook her head. He was probably planning on using them for a prank. She moved out to reshelve a few books to keep an eye on him. Technically, they were the property of the Margrave, so she could scold him for defacing them if that's what he was planning. They weren’t  _ his  _ yet.

Instead, he settled himself at the little reading parlor, with its squashy leather chairs, lit by the soft light of the glass. Though it was dim inside the library to protect the books, it was a stunningly beautiful Garland Moon day outside; truly a sin to be indoors. Birds sang in the Gautier's garden, and the ladies of the court were chasing one another between the hedgerows, playing a game about the dovecote. For one moment, Sylvain put his chin in his hand and leaned against the frame, watching them out the window, heavy books weighing his lap to the chair.

A melancholy longing passed his face, but he arranged the books, settling in to read.

The bookkeeper was honestly impressed. He clearly had no idea where to begin, but he sat there for hours, just reading away. He looked honestly very miserable, like a wilted flower, but he was determined enough. Around dusk, she approached him with a slimmer book in hand, and wearing a more sympathetic expression.

"Here, my lord," she said, still stern as she handed him the book. "Why don't you begin with this."

It was thin but well cared for even though much worn. It was a book Sylvain knew that Ashe carried around him wherever he went, but one that Sylvain himself had never read.  _ The Knight's Creed. _ Anonymous author.

"Does it have pictures?" Sylvain asked, unsure if she was picking on him with such a thin book, or trying to offer reprieve from the other such dense material he’d picked himself. "Why wasn't this one with the others?" he asked.

This close, she could see a problem maybe no one else wanted to admit: Sylvain Jose Gautier probably needed reading glasses. Something that would certainly make the Margrave frown. No riding horses with fragile metal frames, after all. He managed, though it was exacerbated by the low lights.

She didn't bring it up. She already didn't like the boy. Let him deal with his own problems. This gesture was her olive branch, and it was as much as she was willing to do right now.

"Just take it," she muttered, shoving it under his nose and trundling off. It was her personal copy.

When he opened it, he saw that, indeed, there was a picture, an illustration on the very first page. It was a sketch, though, a beautiful drawing of a strong woman holding a helmet under her arm while looking down on a small village. It was captioned,  _ A knight struggles always with what is good and what is law. _

Sylvain had been so engrossed in reading he had forgotten lunch--something that Ingrid would not have abided, though upon seeing the beautiful knight, thoughts of sneaking off for a snack vanished. He bundled up with the book, telling himself later he would read Bernie's new installment as a treat for himself.

What is good and what is law... why were they not the same?

Sylvain was not a fool. He was old enough to know that not all laws were written with true empathy in mind, only order. But he didn't expect that to be in a book called  _ The Knight's Creed. _ He often heard the other knights talk about keeping order, stopping criminals, upholding the law, but he never heard them talk about actually helping people. To them, those seemed to be one and the same.

He turned the page. It was not a book at all. It was a journal, written from the perspective of a knight in the age and service of King Loog. She was unnamed; obviously, one didn't write their own name in their journal. But it was so real and personable.

_ Did you ever wonder, Theodora? Did you ever wonder where I was when I traveled with the King of Lions? He once called me his Lioness, and it felt so wrong to hear the word not from your lips. _

It was romantic; not just in the way that she wrote to a woman she longed for, Theodora, but in that she lapsed into philosophical melancholy much too often. A woman much more raw than in a fairy tale. Once, apparently, Loog had a wicked man killed, one who had enslaved many, and then ordered the executioner, Kyphon, to kill the wicked man’s children too.

_ Kyphon asked why, as he rightly should have, and I'll never forget the King's answer. That one day, they'd seek revenge if they lived. That it was better, kinder to kill them then and let them die with their father than to let them live lives consumed with a lust for vengeance. I am ashamed to say I did not stop them. The blood of those children is as much on my hands as it was Kyphon's, as much as it was on the King's. _

It haunted Sylvain in a truly terrible way. He shut the book, no longer able to stomach it. Sylvain knew, of course, that being a knight was not entirely sword-waving and gallant jousting, but...

He would need to talk to Ingrid about this.

Still, the journal was engrossing, and despite his heartache, he did eventually pick it back up to begin the next chapter. This persisted all evening, and by the time he had dozed off, his fingers were stained by ink from the pages of notes--mostly questions he had written out.

_ Love, _ he was doing this for love, he had promised himself.

_ I believe now, Theodora, that one might be called a knight by their lord or their people, but may not be a knight at heart. _

"Sylvain."

Sylvain woke with a start, upending papers and a book on his lap. 

The library was dark, was empty of all but the bookkeeper and Ingrid, who stood there with her hands on her hips, frowning down at him--not in her typical chastising way. More as though she couldn't quite figure him out, understand why he was there. "It's just before dawn. Did you sleep in here? What are you reading?" she gestured curiously to the book he'd only slightly drooled on.

"Oh! Oh fuck! Her book, shit…” He checked to be sure no ink was running. Almost absently he handed her the colorful little journal as he stacked up the other books neatly.

"Let's see, I've got, uh Faerghan Lancework of the 900s, Territory Law and Jurisdiction of Faerghus... that one was awful... The Joy of Swordplay and To Spear and Spar..."

He made a neat little tower of them for her to peruse as he fretted to tidy up his space.

Ingrid raised a brow as she looked down. Her eyes lit up with recognition and the smile she showed was fond as she leafed through the pages. "Ashe and I read this a hundred times. I'm glad you picked it up." She looked at the rest. "Have you been reading since yesterday?"

"Uh... yeah, I think." He leapt to his feet, still in sleep-sweat clothes, eyes wide. "Are we ready to start training? It's morning, right?" Despite the mussed hair and the bit of crust around his eyes and mouth, they were bright with determination, with enthusiasm.

The sooner he had a handle on this, the sooner he could be--

_ Loved. _

Ingrid shook her head. "Yeah, it's twenty minutes past when we would have started but you weren't in your room..." She shrugged. "Oh well, first days are always like that. But you didn't come down for dinner so you have to eat. Meat and eggs only!" she commanded, pointing him towards the door. "Phyllis will put the rest of these back so move it."

It occurred to Sylvain that Phyllis was probably the bookkeeper's name, the one who had given him  _ The Knight's Creed. _ He’d never bothered to ask.

"I can't just leave it to her, that's not very gentlemanly or Knightly..." He fumbled for them, holding as many as he could in his arms. "I'll--I'll bring them back tonight, Phyllis, thank you! You are a goddess among women! Beautiful as the fair morning!" Trying to execute bows to the bookkeeper while having half a library in his hands was nigh to impossible, but Sylvain managed, somehow. His heart fluttered as he trotted after Ingrid, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a young fox.

"So! What're we learning today? Fencing? Or... or lancework? Thrusting?" He near winked an eye out.

Ingrid considered helping him carry the books, but honestly, the faster he got tired and gave up on this insane idea of his, the better. She couldn't stay here forever and just train him after all. She had her duty as a Knight of Faerghus.

"First, eat," she sighed and steered him towards the dining room. She didn't let him get up until he'd eaten almost his weight in meat and eggs, and insisted he take an apple with him for a second wind in training. After dropping the books off in his room, she dragged him to the training grounds.

It was incredibly early, but there were some around, mostly those with the night watch who were winding down to sleep during the day, getting a little practice in. When Ingrid returned, she didn't carry a training lance at all, but Luín and Sylvain’s Lance of Ruin. Just like the Lance of Ruin, it twitched, living, in her grip. The very sight of it eerily lighting her features in red in the dark pre-dawn was unsettling.

"I want you to take this seriously, Sylvain," she said quietly, and pushed the Lance of Ruin into his hands so they both had a fair shot. Everyone around them pushed off, giving the two Crestbearers and their Relics distance and watched with fascination as Ingrid circled him. "Every fight from now on is a fight to the death. Understand?"

"It would be an honor to die by the hand of someone so fair," he said, twirling his hand in a bow, but when he took the Lance of Ruin, it seethed in his hands. A strange coldness settled over Sylvain, one that Ingrid had only seen a handful of times. He was bunching up, ready for battle, for blood. "En garde,” he said, tapping the ends of their lances together, both of which gave a high pitched squeal only the two of them could hear.

Ingrid did not even rise to his joke. She was upon him with a blur of speed. She was by no means a tiny woman, but she was insanely quick to make up for her lack of muscle bulk that Sylvain had inherited sort of naturally. She struck out quickly and caught him a blow around the shoulder that never would have been allowed in training as students, and then followed it up before he could even properly recover with a blow to the knees that forced him to awkwardly kneel. And then she had danced out of reach, her face completely stone. Grim.

Right.  _ Fine. _ He seemed to light with an unseen fire, taking her on with an aggression, an anger she had never seen in him, his teeth gritted. This was what they wanted from him, right? This was what they wanted him to become, to be? Fine. He would live up to their expectations, if only out of spite.

He caught the broad side of the Lance of Ruin across her ribs like a battering ram.

Ingrid winced, but she had said this was a fight to the death after all. There was a sudden flash and Sylvain felt his right arm go numb and slack, and suddenly, he was on the ground, Ingrid looming over him.

"Pathetic." She had used that word to describe him many, many times, but never seriously. Not like this. "You expect to earn the respect of the Knights of Seiros with  _ that  _ display? You should just give up now before you embarrass yourself."

He didn't know what possessed him when Sylvain kicked upward at her gut like an ornery horse. If his arm was incapacitated, maybe his legs would work. After all, Felix wasn't above such a thing in sparring. Did it matter if it wasn't knightly?

Honestly, Ingrid was glad. She thought she'd have to remind him of his natural weapons many more times. It was a sort of weakness she used to have like many people who fought with weapons in hand; to use your body. Sparring with Felix had been that constant reminder for her. Not that she was going to let on that she was glad. She was quick, twisting out of the way and smacking his foot painfully with the broad side of her lance. In a single, deft turn, she had Luín at his throat, humming with repulsive energy.

"And you're dead," she smiled, a bit too smug.

Luín seemed to gnaw eagerly at his skin, trimming a bit of his hair, littering the training ground with tiny red clippings. It was only the first skirmish.

"In more ways than one," he said, patting her boot. "Again?"

Being knocked on his feet, once, twice, not even five times, seemed to deter him. Each time he stood, he was more battered, more bruised, but he did not back down, did not turn away. Each time, he faced her with that grin that most of the girls in Fódlan wanted to punch.

Sylvain himself got in a few hits. He had undergone strict training at the Officers Academy after all. But he was nowhere close to beating Ingrid. At the end of the hour, he was black and blue, and even a bit scarlet from repeated batterings in a few areas. And Ingrid was still relatively whole.

To be completely fair, she'd spent her whole life dedicated to training for knighthood. She was the youngest ever to be knighted in Faerghus... Aside from Glenn, now passed. She hadn't spent a single day devoted to frivolity like Sylvain. There was no way he'd beat her the way he was now. 

She was smiling, tossing her head with pride not unlike a show horse. "Well. Amazed you stuck with it for this long, I have to admit."

"Then I just have to keep amazing you!"

"In bed!" one of the guardsmen shouted out over the training field while Sylvain spat out a mouthful of blood from his gums. It was a miracle--or perhaps, Ingrid's restraint, that his teeth hadn't gotten knocked from his skull.

"C'mon, it's Sylvain. He couldn't do that if he tried. Quantity not quality, right?"

Either Sylvain did not hear them, or pretended he didn't. He raised his bruised, busted face up to Ingrid with a smile, bracing to go--again, despite it having been several hours.

Ingrid shot a hateful glare in the direction of the guards, but they weren't scared of her or Sylvain. They knew the Margrave wouldn't do a thing to them for their comments, and as far as they were concerned, it was true. She held Sylvain up. "Sylvain... Sit down for a bit. Here, have some water." She pushed him over and forced him to the bench.

"War waits for nobody, Ingrid, it's not like we're gonna have--have time to sit around and drink tea on the battlefield!" After all, the battles in Sreng had only just begun to settle. He knew very much what it was like to constantly stand at the precipice of calamity. He waggled the Lance of Ruin clumsily at her, still smiling despite the blood on his grin. "Come on, what are you, chicken? Best out of--" He'd lost count. "However many!"

It only took Ingrid a half-hearted push of Luín to sweep his knees out from under him. "Sylvain. I said take a break.  _ Now." _ She pointed to the bench with an authoritative snarl. She pushed her waterskin into his hands. "You asked me to help you train, so you do what I say."

He was quiet then, and utterly drained the waterskin without meaning to, clearly desperately thirsty. Held with both fists, the way he held and drank from it was lewd enough to gain more barely cloaked laughter.

"Guzzles, huh?"

Sylvain drew away with a gasp and sheepishly handed her back the waterskin. "I'm sorry, Ingrid, I was thirstier than I thought."

The guards wouldn’t let up with him. "I'm writing that one down."

It was one thing for Sylvain to tease about himself, it was another for strangers to do it. He tried to stretch his limbs, like an athlete. He was no slouch when it came to strength, but it was decidedly unpracticed. He rotated his shoulders a little, listening to the chorus of little snaps and pops along his spine. "Do you need any water? I can get some from the spigot."

Ingrid desperately wished she could cut the throats of the tittering guards, just standing around watching them and teasing Sylvain. It was enough to make her want to actually see this through. To help Sylvain really pass the test, to become a student of the most prestigious Generals in all of Fódlan. She knew for a fact that Byleth was to be Felix's tutor, given that Byleth was so immensely cunning and strong that merely teaching at the Officers Academy was a woeful misuse of his talents.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that Sylvain would give up soon. Unfortunately, she knew him well. Soon, announcements would be flooding in about all the grand parties he was missing, about all the beautiful young lords and ladies who were being introduced to society, and Sylvain would give up. He'd remember the insults, the gruesome tasks, the thankless work, the brutal training and he'd _ give up. _

She loved him dearly, but he was not exactly known for his tenacity or self-esteem. Not when it came to this.

She shook her head. "I'm fine." She dropped to the bench beside him, Luín beside her. "Sylvain... Why are you doing this? Felix... He'll come around, I know he will. He'll come back."

Honestly, she didn't know that with any conviction. Because she knew Felix too, and he was stubborn to a fault. He'd never admit his mistake and he'd never apologize. She was afraid the rift between the two of them had finally become too wide, too deep to traverse. Sure, they'd had little fights in the past. Sometimes they even got nasty. But this had been scarring, and she knew it. For both of them.

"I told you," Sylvain sighed with a huff, as if he was repeating himself. "I'm the Heir of Gautier, I have that," he said, pointing out the Lance of Ruin, continuing to stare at him with terrible bloodlust. "And it's quite literally, what I'm  _ born  _ for. I should live up to it, be--be serious."

He glanced at the backs of the other guards, who had given up their game to walk to the mess hall. "For Felix, for my Dad, for Faerghus, for Fódlan."

Sylvain had never been particularly patriotic, something that rankled the tastes of most of those in Gautier territory as they laid their lives down at the Sreng border for King and Country. "Isn't it time? To be what I was bred for?"

The Gautier were always horsefolk; so many learned to ride before they could walk. The Margravine had ridden pregnant with both of her sons, and then with them as infants. Everyone in the territory was either openly involved with the cavalry, or any stage of horse husbandry. The language associated with studs and breeding bled easily into the common vernacular.

Ingrid winced. She was all about duty. Or had been, before deciding to ditch the burden of marriage for her territory and become a Knight instead. One day, she supposed, she'd have to do both. But she didn't want that for her friend. She didn't want to see Sylvain stuck in a cage... Even if it meant losing the protection of the Gautier buffer zone.

"Sylvain... That's not what you want, though," she pointed out helplessly. "I mean, I'd be happy if you were doing this by desire rather than design, but the Knights of Gautier are a hardy bunch. They can probably make do without the Lance of Ruin." She glanced at it, propped up against the stone wall by her own terrifying burden.

"This  _ is _ what I want, Ingrid," Sylvain protested, just on the side of hot--he hadn't eaten beyond breakfast, after all, and he was worn down, "Why doesn't anyone fucking believe me…?" He raked his gauntlets through his red hair. "Of course. I know why. Don't answer that." He groaned, arching his back. "I need to do this, Ingrid. I  _ need _ to."

He still wasn't sure who for. But Felix was a nice enough goal to focus on, no matter how much that scoff still rang in his ears, his wrinkled-nose sneer haunted him.

Ingrid finally sighed, shaking her empty water skin and stood up. "Okay. Okay, fine. If you insist this is what you want, then I won't ask you again, okay?" She pulled him up by his arm. It was early afternoon. "Go eat and bathe. I'm going to drill you on tactics later."

She did the same, and in the tub, she considered what it must be like to be Sylvain.

She had used to call him worthless and good-for-nothing, just like everyone else. It was only when she grew up and learned better that she saw the truth of it. Why he was so necessary.

They could train a thousand knights to be as dedicated as she was, or as skilled as Felix was. But neither of them would ever grow close to how  _ essential  _ types of people like Sylvain were. Rare and sparkling like gems, he was the sort of person people gravitated towards. The kind that, though he said insincere things, made people want to listen. Even the most stubborn person stopped and considered Sylvain. Even people like Felix, argumentative and crude at the best of times, stopped to look his way.

She wrung out her hair, missing the lengthy braid she cut off in dedication to her knighthood. She was not the sort of person who could save the world and she knew it. She was the shield, the weapon, the arm that reached out at the behest of someone else.

And the good people of Fódlan just had to hope it was at the behest of good and kind people like Sylvain.

But there was no way telling him that would do any good. Not when so many buried him in their expectations and standards that he failed to meet. She realized with a measure of guilt that she, too, had not believed in him. But it was more because of what she hoped he would be.

Honestly, Sylvain should have been born a prince. Should have been born with the power to lead, not just the talent.

  
  


"Are you even listening?" she growled, smacking the map in front of her. "You can't just sacrifice the  _ advantage  _ for the good of the horses in a war, Sylvain, no matter how much you may want to."

"Okay, but mounts come from further distances, don't they?" he asked, turning the map around. "You know as well as I do that troops can be moved quicker in convoy with the use of wagons. If the cavalry and mounts suffer losses here, our own men will not be able to mobilize quickly." He was often taught to protect the herd, as mounts were more valuable--and harder to come by.

His own hair was still damp, and the cool water had soothed some of the worse bruising, at least. But, pretty he was  _ not _ at the moment, except for perhaps, the beauty in his earnestness as he leant over the map, shuffling figurines of war games about.

Ingrid shook her head slowly. She could, at least, appreciate that he hadn't made a single innuendo in over half an hour. "Yes, in general circumstances, that's true. But this battle is for _ resources, _ for control of the river, here, see?" She tapped it pointedly. "And with the sheer number of Generals at the enemy's back, if you don't make this move, you lose the advantage of the rocky terrain here. You'll keep the horses and the troops, but you will lose what keeps them alive. Remember, this is a survival scenario."

She watched his brow furrow as he began to understand. She'd never once called him stupid. A nuisance, sure, and an idiot for other reasons, but Sylvain was always quick to pick up on things, details more so than the broader consequences.

He frowned, turning the map slightly with his fingers.

"...If it's a battle for resources, is it a shared river?" he asked, checking the territory lines again. "A bordering river with another country or territory?"

Ingrid sighed. "It's not a real map, Sylvain. It's just a hypothetical scenario."

"Okay, but then, hypothetically," he said, waggling his fingers in quotation marks. "What is the resource that is being fought over here? Is it a situation where this can be rationed? Is it purely for trade, or is it food, water, shared space? That's important, right?" He picked up the tiny pewter knight, walking it over to the other identical knights lined up along the river. "If it's a political enemy, I can understand, but if it is an ally, and infighting, shouldn't it be defused?"

Somehow, in looking up in detail, Sylvain had stepped far, far back to see the whole picture.  _ Why _ were these people fighting?

Ingrid's smile was a little soft, a little hopeless. He was not meant to be a knight at all. It was what she liked best about him. "Sylvain... all of those things are not for you to consider as a Knight, and not as a future Margrave either. First and foremost, a Knight fights for a person and a cause. That cause is determined by the monarch. All you need to do, as the potential captain of these twoscore people," she gestured to the figurines. "Is determine how best to carry out that cause with the resources you have on hand, saving as many lives as possible."

Sylvain ducked his head, and a smile played across his lips as he rubbed the back of his head. "Right right, who do I think I am, Rufus? Okay, so... Could the horses be released to cause a distraction?" He was desperate to cover up what was actually his best asset; that longing to make peace and concession, buried in the face of war and blood.

Ingrid sighed. "You  _ could. _ But you risk losing them entirely if you did that. Although I suppose the worst they'd suffer is to be captured by the enemy, so... they'd be spared." She glanced at the window. It was already dark out and the day had been exhausting for both of them for entirely separate reasons. "Listen, let's call it a day, okay?" She swept the figurines neatly back into the box and chided him, "No sleeping in the library this time. You'll need proper rest because I'm getting you before dawn again, got it?"

Sylvain slumped back to his room, passing by the kitchen for only a roll. He was too tired to even eat properly, and he dreaded how he'd feel when he woke.

Still, he could not resist, upon dragging himself back to his room, cracking open  _ The Knight's Creed. _ He had been thinking of the knight's words all day, and it was only dragged back into the forefront of his mind with Ingrid telling him what the true purpose of a knight was.

_ It seems foolish to mention, Theodora, but today I rescued a dog from a mountain lion. And though I have saved countless people before now, I can only say with conviction that, in having to shred no blood, but scaring off the beast by beating my shield, it has been the only time I have ever felt that I had done something good in my entire service to the King. _

Reading in bed was a comfort to Sylvain that he wouldn't quite admit. Not when he usually used beds for other activities. It brought him back to hiding under the covers, Ingrid and Felix tucked under his elbows, reading to them with a little flame he had conjured carefully in his fingers. He toyed with a little flame now--his only spell.  _ Practical,  _ his father had told him. That was all.

He traced the illustration of a lion lying down with a dog--a fearsome thing with great jaws and paws, and a docile little creature, eyes bright, tail wagging, lying together as if they were friends. A fanciful notion, indeed, but a nice one.

The ethereal giggles of his friends lingered in his ears, thinking of how once, they had depended on him. How had he become so worthless before them? How had they grown, but he had stagnated?

When he finally drifted off, the book was overturned on his breast.

When Sylvain dreamed, he dreamed of Felix astride his own horse, Lady. She was carrying them somewhere, taking them both far, far away. Felix gripped his sword in a bloody hand and plunged it into the roaring maw of a great, blue-maned lion.

And when Ingrid pounded on his door, the jerking motion he performed hurt  _ everything. _ Muscles he didn't know he had, bruises he hadn't noticed the day before blossoming into dark flowers all over his chest, arms, and thighs.

_ "Get up!" _

"Yes sir!" he managed to bellow. 

The thing that stumbled into the hallways was enough to make a passing maid yelp--his face had swollen something awful. Yet he saluted Ingrid, only one button mismatched. His mind was still full of the warmth of Felix across his saddle, holding onto him as he fought, being steady, strength for him to rely on.

"You look awful," Ingrid quipped, grinning and punching his arm right where she knew it would hurt most. "Come on. Breakfast."

It was another day of meat, eggs, getting beaten to shit by Ingrid, and then slapped over the head as he tried to wrestle his creative mind into something of productive use for a knight. Only today was even harder, because he was already a walking injury.

"It doesn't get easier," Ingrid promised cheerfully. "But you get used to it."

And this time, when he rolled into bed, his ears were ringing from the pain of it all. He put himself to sleep again with the comfort of reading before passing out after two minutes.

_ Theodora, sometimes I even question why we broke away from Adrestia. The Emperor was oppressive to be sure, but Loog, the great and powerful King of Lions... I am not sure he fares so much better. He is like a child who stumbled onto the battlefield with a branch. And Kyphon is the perfect Knight, always at his side, following his command. It curdles my blood to pick up my sword sometimes. _

Kyphon was a Fraldarius if Sylvain remembered right. Though, he noted, Felix would have to undergo brainwashing to take orders from anyone like Kyphon did, and the thought made him smile as he dreamed.

A week. Then two. Then three.

Ingrid shattered his nose on the impact of the broad side of Luín; while the healers pinched it and poured white magic onto him; the beautiful bridge of his nose now had a bit of bump. The fretting priests tried to reassure him it would smooth over time, heal up.

Unfortunately that afternoon was when the wad of invitations came in, tied with a pretty red ribbon. Sitting on the training ground bench, Sylvain tugged the ribbon across his lap, spilling dozens of letters, invitations, and bawdy love notes. The scent of the perfume on each envelope was near nauseating combined with one another. A stack of affection, touch, love and praise, right here in his hand. Several months full of being welcomed into the beds of nobles, commoners, knowing they would hold him, and gush over him...

And then  _ discard _ him. Cry out the names of their real lovers. Make him swear to never see, love another, only to oust him for some reason or another.

Pretending to peruse them for a moment, he let them slide from his lap and onto the dirt, trod under his boots.

"Eh. My face is fucked up anyway. They won't want to see me till it straightens out." He tried to offer a smile.

Ingrid had only one more week before she had to leave for active duty under King Rufus' command. Honestly, she had not thought Sylvain would make it this far. She was impressed. Though he'd still never beaten her once, the improvements he made (and the number of bruises on Ingrid herself) had racked up continuously. She had begun to believe in him, began to believe he might make it after all before those invitations arrived.

Sylvain had already missed three grand balls. She honestly didn't think she'd known Sylvain to go a full three  _ days  _ without someone to warm his bed, let alone weeks.

She looked up at him. "Sylvain... are you sure? Aren't they your friends?"

His voice was astonishingly cold. "Not a single one of them cares about me," he said, and though he groaned to stand, to pick up his lance, he did so, stretching his arms wide. "It's fine. I'll see them when I'm a knight." He flashed a winning smile at her.  _ And maybe they'll think something of me then, _ was implied. He began his stretches again, his muscles groaning and bruises complaining onto the back half of his brain.

Then he stooped to collect the red ribbon, tying it in a knot around the Lance of Ruin; blasphemy of some kind, surely.

Later, Ingrid leaned over her knee, her foot pressed against Sylvain's back in the dirt for the umpteenth time. "Why do you hang out with them, then?" She knew fully well why. But she wanted to hear him say it, understand himself.

"Because who else  _ will, _ Ingrid? Definitely not you or Felix, not if you have people you want to impress! Not if you're trying to look  _ upstanding!" _ he snapped, and pounded the dirt with is fist. "Can we just  _ train, _ for fuck's sake?" He boiled over, and Ingrid could feel the hitch of his breaths on his back. "Can we just train so I can be someone  _ worth  _ something?"

He must have been very close to the edge to become so vulnerable with her. Sylvain struggled to sit up, to stand and push her off, to hastily build his walls back up.

Ingrid flushed red with anger.  _ "No!" _ she hissed, grinding her boot down further. "No we can't, not until we talk about what happened with Felix! It's been three weeks and you haven't said or word about it or even  _ flirted  _ with anyone!"

Thankfully, they were alone now, no prying eyes or listening ears, no one to gossip or laugh.

"Yeah, don't you get it?" Sylvain was incredulous. "I thought you'd be over the moon. Father was thrilled.” He had to turn his head to the side to speak to her, cheek pressed into the dirt. "What could we  _ possibly  _ talk about?!"

Ingrid threw up her hands in defeat. "Sylvain, of  _ course  _ we hate your reckless flirting! It's irresponsible, dangerous, and creates so,  _ so _ much work for your friends and the people who truly care about you! But having fun once in a while is normal and healthy and... for hell's sake, you normally  _ never  _ stop talking about Felix!"

Sylvain gave a rather equine snort, blowing up a bit of dirt. "What do you want from me, Ingrid? He broke my heart, if it's to be believed I  _ have  _ one. But I can't blame him, can I? I just have to--prove it. To him, to everyone."

Ingrid let him up then, but only because she was angry. "Fine, then. Be that way."

She stormed off the training ground, leaving him alone. No one else was there, as it was around lunchtime, and honestly, the rest of the staff had grown bored teasing Sylvain. Three weeks and he'd not fucked any of them, so they were getting their entertainment elsewhere.

"Hm. Hey, Sylvie."

Dorothea. She'd been there the last two days to see Ingrid, and had honestly been spending more time with a cousin she had here since Ingrid had insisted on training Sylvain. She squatted down next to him. "You want to get up? Or just lay there for a bit?"

"Lay here," he muttered, though then he gave in, sitting up. "...No, never mind, my back hurts." He hid his face in his palms, heaving a sigh that seemed to rock through his whole ribcage. "...I don't get it, Thea. Why isn't everyone  _ happy? _ This is supposed to be the greatest decision I've ever made. And then I'll get to Garreg Mach and I'll show everyone..." He paused. "Show them..." Show them what? A beat-to-shit redhead? "Show them I'm something, right?"

Dorothea raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and twitched her perfectly painted lips. "Sylvain... you clearly don't care what everyone else thinks of you. Or you'd have cleaned up your act earlier. You were so happy at that party. It's about Felix and you know it."

She refused to sit on the ground so, ignoring his groan of protest, she sat on his lap instead.

"People like you and me, Sylvie... we can't go very long without a kind touch." She brushed her fingertips over his cheek, pushing away his sweaty bangs. "Do this silly knight thing if you want. But don't kill yourself over it. There's cute new maids who have been eyeing you. Relax and let go, okay? Just a little bit."

She kissed his brow gently, and it was the first time anyone else's lips had touched him since Felix. Then she was gone, off to find Ingrid and soothe her with more of those kisses.

It was so tempting. If they were eyeing him with that bashed in nose, his sweaty tunics, his slumped shoulders... then he would be enough, wouldn't he? They wouldn't care how broken he was, right?

  
  


He chose a girl with dark hair, slipping into that easy rhythm of compliments, croons and kisses to coax her into his bedroom. Her name was June? April? A pretty month for a pretty girl. He spread her out on his bed, spilled her hair, coated her face, her throat with his lips, worshipped her body with his hands.

She groaned his name for the first few thrusts; but by the time she was close to release--and he was, too--she squealed out a different name.

Jackie? Jacob? Something like that.

His own rising climax halted in its tracks. What was he  _ doing? _

It was too late for the pretty maid beneath him. She was already appeased, moaning as she came down from her high. But all Sylvain could see was Felix spread out beneath him instead, his voice as he glared up at him.

_ Worthless. _

Sylvain pulled out abruptly, having lost any drive to continue. She had been satisfied, and so she whisked into the night with giggles, clutching her cloak close to cover herself. It was not the first girl who dashed from Sylvain's room--the ‘path to heaven’ he used to call it--but now he collapsed at the foot of his own bed and began to sob.

In one night of desperation, had he ruined all his progress? Had he made any at all, or was he simply pretending, fooling himself?

The only thing of comfort was  _ The Knight's Creed. _

_ A child thanked me for the slaughter of a group of thieves today. They had threatened the life of his poor mother, so it was understandable. _

_ But Theodora, sometimes I wonder. They had made off with their two chickens and a sack of potatoes. That’s all. And we killed them. Without the lack of food or water, would there be any need for Knights at all? _

  
  


In the morning, Ingrid was half an hour late. It wasn't like her, to be sure, but perhaps she was still mad. In contrast, when he opened his door, she looked apologetic.

"Sylvain," she said quietly. "I just wanted to say before we start today... I'm sorry about my behavior." She looked at her boots instead. "I'm sorry I tried to force you to talk about something you weren't ready to." She shifted a bit. "That's all."

Sylvain was indisposed. He hadn't gotten dressed, wrapped up in his blankets with his book, his face in one hand. The mussed bedclothes, the tangled hair--a left behind hair comb. It painted a clear picture of what had transpired the night before.

"I fucked up, Ingrid," he murmured, "They're... all right about me." As if one night of letting off steam had  _ soiled  _ him, and he was back to being a good-for-nothing waste of space.

Ingrid blinked up at him and wrinkled her nose. He needed a bath. Badly. "What do you mean?"

"I took some--some girl and fucked her, I didn't even know her name--I'm a goddamn rake." His fingers clutched at his scalp. "I'm not going to be like the knights in the stories--not like you or Felix."

Ingrid did not have the heart to tell him that no, he was never going to be the kind of Knight she or Felix was. Although to be fair, Felix was not aiming for Knighthood at all, only to be trained by the best of the best.

"Sylvain," she said carefully, touching his arm. "That doesn't matter."

He raised his head to her, his eyes pink around the edges. Clearly he had been crying for a good part of the night. His fingers pawed at the edges of the book, and his voice settled back into resolution. "But it's worth trying, right? It's worth doing  _ something. _ Even if I can't be like you--it's better to be that then what I am."

Ingrid sighed, feeling like she was doing a lot of sighing lately. How could she hope to encourage him when she had her own conflicting thoughts on what was ‘worth it’ for him? "Sylvain, listen. Taking someone to bed isn't going to undo all your training and studying. It's  _ fine  _ to have fun, no one was ever against that from the start. But if that's all you're doing... It's destructive." Her sigh became a little smile, a small ray of positivity. "And you've been working so hard. I've seen it firsthand. Sylvain, I'm  _ proud  _ of you."

Sylvain’s smile returned--the smile that so few really saw, the same smile that won her over as a little girl when this rough and tumble redhead had come to visit.

He was not drastically older than her and Felix, but--it was always a bit alarming to see her older ‘brother’ so vulnerable. His arms wrapped around her and gave a firm squeeze--it was easy to forget just how  _ big  _ Sylvain was, all folded up like that, but it was clear when he held her.

"Blessed are you among women," he mumbled, and kissed her cheek. "Now. Let's get training."

What followed was the most exhausting week of his life. Ingrid worked him so damned hard that he could barely remember eating or sleeping, let alone having time to do anything else. She interspersed praise for him with biting insults which she delivered with care--just enough to really motivate him, as well as teach him to control his anger. Because though he'd let out a burst of strength whenever she snapped at him, he was easier to topple and trip up.

Dorothea watched most of the time; she'd be going with Ingrid to Fhirdiad when she left. "You'll keep up with it, won't you?" she asked Sylvain, bringing water and towels for both of them. "When Ingrid's gone? You have to show that beautiful people like us are good for more than looking at," she winked.

"That's the plan, Thea," he said, reaching over to strategically move a single lock of her hair out of place. "Are you going to  _ shred  _ everyone at the Royal School of Sorcery?" He gave a wink. "I've heard." Sylvain knew he was heading to having an entire vessel of water upended on his head, but he was so hot, he actually was looking forward to it.

Dorothea gave a coy little smile and did as he expected, at least bathing off some of the sweat. "Maybe a few. Girl has to have her fun, wouldn't you agree?" She hugged Ingrid's arm tightly. "When you find something to fight for, you don't  _ stop  _ playing, Sylvie. You just play  _ smarter, _ remember that."

  
  


With Ingrid and Dorothea departed, Sylvain could wash up and take the rest of the day to rest. He sorely needed it.

His father had finally taken notice of what he was doing and had given him a nod of silent approval, which was not as much praise as Sylvain finally meeting the bar of his expectations at least a little bit. He'd have to find other Knights to practice with since he couldn't go back to fighting mere guards after sparring with Ingrid so long. He'd never beaten her, not once, but he still needed a challenge.

The problem was that even a month of intense training hadn't been enough to dispel his reputation. While anyone else being the Margrave's son would have earned him respect, the other Knights seemed to be of a different mind about it.

Jenner was the best Knight there was under Margrave Gautier's employ, a man only a few years older than Sylvain. He was indeed the handsome sort, but he wasn't a  _ kind _ man.

"Hm... I have such a busy schedule, my lord," he drawled. "All my free time goes to leisure, you understand. But if, perhaps, you were to offer some... Incentive," and here his eyes raked up and down Sylvain's body in the way he was so used to, "I might clear my schedule a bit."

As the Margrave's son, Sylvain could have the man dismissed for such a thing, the mere suggestion (if his father believed him, that is). But a gnawing part of his mind told him,  _ You'd probably like it, wouldn't you? _

"That incentive is not on the table," he said, trying to sound firm, like his father, unshakable. "I can  _ make  _ time in your schedule for you if you prefer." It was somewhat of an empty threat, but a privilege that Sylvain could wield. He gripped onto the Lance of Ruin tighter, trying to intimidate.

Jenner shrugged as though he wouldn't care one way or another. If he told the Margrave that Sylvain was lying, who would the Margrave actually believe? "That incentive didn't seem to be  _ off  _ the table last week with Yvette," he pointed out, lazily examining his nails. "And she didn’t even spar with you. Do you even remember?"

"She was an  _ invited  _ guest. There's a difference. You are  _ not," _ Sylvain snapped. The Lance of Ruin was beginning to squirm, sensing his anger grow, longing for battle. "Just spar with me. It isn't that difficult. Unless it is for you, huh?"

Jenner just raised an eyebrow with him. "Don't tell me the invitation is only for women now? Jonathan's been going on and on about how he railed you on the balcony where just anyone could see. They say you like it like that. Where  _ everyone  _ can see you." He leaned forward boldly, smirking. "And I know for a fact that you've been after that Fraldarius heir. He's a bit too good for someone like you, don't you think? Sure, you've got the  _ breeding,  _ but sometimes even a good sire's going to have a few bad batches."

The Lance of Ruin was beginning to hiss, like burning flesh. "I'm saying invitations are for  _ me  _ to give. And I'm not offering that for you."

In theory, Sylvain could've just challenged another Knight. However, they fell into line and rank behind Jenner, refusing to budge, to yield. As long as Jenner held out, he wouldn't have adequate sparring partners.

"I'll ask one more time. Spar with me."

Jenner ignored him completely, and even ignored the Lance of Ruin twitching and hissing. He leaned close so that Sylvain could feel the heat of his breath. "How is he, by the way?" Jenner whispered. "Bet he's a little  _ wildcat  _ in bed. Who fucked who?" he laughed coldly. "Bet he'd spread his legs for someone like you, huh? Maybe he's just as bad; if he hangs around you, he  _ must  _ be."

Sylvain didn't really remember raising the lance. He didn't remember slipping into the perfect stance that would've made Ingrid very proud, or the flex of his shoulder muscles as he brought the weapon around--but he remembered the sound of the Lance's flat end colliding with Jenner's smug fucking face and pummeling him to the ground.

He stood over him, holding the glowing, wriggling thing as he grinned, voice too cheery. "Guess it's just a  _ regular  _ fight then."

Jenner shouted in surprise and anger as he clutched his broken nose and cheekbone. It had been a strong strike, helped along by Sylvain's anger. Was this productive? Not at all. Would it help in the long run? Also no. But it felt good to see Jenner on the ground.

He struggled to stand and clenched his fists, swinging and catching Sylvain's jaw. "You little  _ bitch! _ You actually think you're  _ good  _ for something? You're  _ nothing! _ You're going to pump out a few heirs with Crests and then you can soil your bed until you die!"

Sylvain knew that Ingrid would chastise him and that Dorothea would pout. But neither of them were here. While he could throw the lance aside and just all out brawl with his hands, he was going to use this for training.

So instead, he used the shaft of the lance to block Jenner’s blows, to bat his hands aside. It was infuriating--enough force to hurt, to stop--but not enough to break this time, all the while, keeping that grin, only fueling his anger.

"Go on, buddy, keep going. I've heard worse."

Jenner seemed to collect himself after that. He didn't want to be fired. He had it good here. But he'd get Sylvain back, that was for damned sure.

"Yeah, I bet you hear worse from your father," he sneered as he wiped the blood off his face and sauntered off like he had won. In a way, he had. Sylvain had no sparring partners now. That would make it difficult to pass the exam, even with eleven months left. The knights closed ranks. No one was willing to battle him, and even guards that had previously sparred with Sylvain now suddenly had better things to do and had no time for him.

This, naturally, ended up in a letter that arrived in Fhirdiad, in which a Margrave's son sought counsel from a Knight of Faerghus.

_ To my dearest friend, Sir Ingrid Brandl Galatea of the Knights of Faerghus, with kindest regards: _

_ Hi Ingrid! I hope that you and Dorothea are settling in well at the capital. I am keeping up my training (I promise)! But I may have hit a teensy tiny snag... _

What followed next was a rant of expletives that explained the situation as transparently as possible; he knew he was in the shit, but he also didn't want to scrape the ground to get training partners.

_ So... I have a stupid idea again. _

_ Can I just... creep out at night and fight bandits? Real world experience, right? _

_ Signed, His Lordship, Sylvain Jose Gautier of the North. _

_ Hugs and kisses. _

Normally a very busy Ingrid might not have replied right away, but only two days later, her response arrived.

_ Sylvain, don't you even  _ **_think_ ** _ about doing something so dangerous or I will kill you myself. _

She listed a few people she could ask to help him, but none of them were as good as she was. Ferdinand would have a little time. Bernadetta was actually quite good, as was Ashe, a commoner friend she'd made in Fhirdiad, but none of them were enough.

_ It's a shame you can't spar with-- _ here she had written  _ Prince _ and then crossed it out-- _ Duke Dimitri. He's amazing and so strong... I can only beat him on horseback, and even then, it's close. But he's also going to the monastery to train. _

When he wasn't strength training, Sylvain rode. Without partners, it was the only thing he could do. He took up falconry, and was often spotted riding with his falcon tucked close on his arm. In his loneliness, he found himself in Lady's company, and the company of his hawk.

It seemed the embargo on his company had passed on to almost the entire estate, and surrounding villages. The message was clear. No one was to befriend the Margrave's son, and especially not to take him to bed.

For Sylvain, he wondered if this was a fate worse than death, as he watched his falcon soar over the scrubby fields, seeking out rabbits. He leaned forward on his saddle, burying his face in Lady's mane miserably. His heart ached, longing. That was fairly standard for him before, but now there were not even superficial relationships to quiet it. He had no one.

Was it worth this? Just to stick it to his father, to Felix? If he stopped, right now, apologized, sucked Jenner's dick, he could have everything back. Could be the hot young heir again, with a retinue of girls and boys at night.

He knew that none of that was real, though, knew it in his core.

From atop the saddle, he wrote back.

_ How else am I to find partners? At this rate, I'll fail, and all of this will have been for nothing. _

He was already beginning to wonder if it was, but to turn back now… he didn't want to be that person.

In lieu of a formal reply, Ingrid came herself four days later. She looked tired, but she was never one to turn her back on her friends.

Instead of greeting her with a casual wave, Sylvain ended up greeting her with a tight hug, burrowing into her shoulder. He looked awful, and she'd only been gone a month and change. For one moment, Sylvain felt a bit like the rescued Princess in a tower.

She hugged him back tightly. "Pack up. Come to Fhirdiad with me. We can spar there when I'm finished with my responsibilities at night. Bernadetta is staying there with Ferdinand and Hubert. And you might convince the... Convince Duke Blaiddyd to spar," she shrugged.

He would need to speak to his father, but first, he took a precious volume to him to return to the library, and knocked carefully on the doorframe.

"...Hello?"

Phyllis was just putting away the books for the day. She turned around and scowled. "Closing up. You're not sleeping in here again, Lord Gautier."

"No, I... I don't think I'll be sleeping here for a long time. I am going to train in Fhirdiad, and... I wanted to return this." He offered her  _ The Knight's Creed, _ lovingly cared for, the spine reinforced. "It is yours, isn't it? Not the library's?"

"It is," Phyllis said after a moment's hesitation. She saw the bookmark in it and frowned. "You've had it for a whole month and you haven't finished it? I know the script is small, but Lord Gautier..." She shook her head and pushed it back to him. "Finish it. When you're done, then you can return it. And be sure it's packed safely for travel."

“I confess I may be dragging my feet,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want it to end.” Still, he bent down to kiss her cheek and hand, the same way he would do with any beautiful, rich lady of the court. “Thank you. For your kindness.” On the surface she had been anything but kind to him. He annoyed her, and he knew it, but just as the saying went about covers and books, he was grateful. “I’ll bring it back safe.”

Now,  _ now _ he had to face his father. 

Unlike most children, he couldn’t simply walk into his father’s office and say hello. No, he had to ask the guards, wait outside, and even then, he could be refused entry. Ingrid could see him stiffen like drying paper as he stood by the office door, holding on to  _ The Knight’s Creed _ like some kind of talisman. At least she was going in with him.

Ingrid flashed him an encouraging smile. It was late in the evening but the Margrave was still in his office, working, and Sylvain's mother was out of town, visiting friends. When Sylvain heard the "Enter" in his father's typical irritated tone, Ingrid could only smile harder. She couldn't think of anything else to do.

Margrave Gautier looked up only once before staring back down at the pile of papers on his desk. "Sylvain," he said simply. "What do you want?"

Sylvain was so used to that tone he didn't even flinch anymore. He stepped inside, bowed, and straightened his back. "I wished to--inform you of my departure for Fhirdiad for training."

_ Inform him.  _ Not ask permission. He was going. He just had to be confident enough to speak it aloud, will it into existence. Gone was any of the soft lines Sylvain usually carried; he was rigid, like a sculpture of duty before the Margrave. After all, he had seen what had become of sons who were not worthy.

The Margrave stopped writing abruptly and set down his pen. His eyes were full of threatening storms. "Fhirdiad?" he demanded, his voice deepening. "Why? You can continue to train here. I hear you have been dedicated. Keep working at it."

He went back to his paper. Swift refusal and dismissal. Not even considering that Sylvain wasn't asking.

"No," Sylvain said, soft at first, then hardening.  _ "No. _ In case you weren't paying attention, the knights stationed here refuse to spar with me, and therefore, I have no partners. Without any partners to train with, I will fail this exam. In Fhirdiad, I have a chance, training with Ingrid and the knights of Faerghus." He balled up his fists. "This is the best course of action."

Slowly, Margrave Gautier stood up behind his desk. Even now, Sylvain knew that his old man could do anything he wanted. Could have him disowned. Could force him to lose everything. Could make his life a living hell.

"Sylvain." He was no longer being lenient. "Do you think for one moment that I would allow you to spoil our name in the eyes of the King? I am relieved you've finally seen fit to actually work, but that hardly erases your reputation. I am still in discussions with Count Rowe about reparations for his daughter and son. You will  _ not  _ go. My answer is final."

Sylvain raised his chin. He felt like he was already on the precipice of losing everything. Why not push it? "Then can I not seek to restore  _ my  _ honor, and the honor of our house through my  _ actions? _ I am leaving for Fhirdiad, father. I have always been told that actions speak louder than any vow, so allow me to act. As it stands, I have done all I can here."

_ "And?" _ the Margrave snapped, stepping out from behind his desk. Sylvain had already reached his height, yet somehow he still managed to tower over his son. "Should I just let you go on good faith alone? After all you have done to spit in the face of everything we have tried to give you? Good schooling, food, shelter, luxury?  _ Damn it, _ Sylvain, you're my son and I want to trust you, but you've never given me a damned reason!"

Sylvain’s strong stare didn't waver under his volume. "Then why don't you take collateral? Consider it a loan. A loan on your trust." He didn't budge. "Name your price."

His chin stayed level, his eyes, so like his mother's, meeting his. "I'm willing to sacrifice."

His father narrowed his eyes. Watched him, trying to take him apart. "When you have what you seek," he said quietly. "Return home. Take our battalions and rid Fódlan of your worthless brother."

His words hung sharp on the air like a broken window threatening to fall and pierce Sylvain through.

"...You want me to kill Miklan," Sylvain said quietly. Only now, only now did Ingrid see his hands quiver--just his fingertips, lost in his fists.

His father knew very well what Miklan had done to Sylvain. But he also knew that some part of Sylvain wanted to have a brother. Have  _ someone. _ Have family. More than this.

"It doesn't have to be your hand," his father continued. "But you will hunt him down and annihilate the loose branch of this family tree. If he should have children, one of them might bear the Crest of Gautier, and then imagine what that could do."

He knew what he asked of Sylvain. He knew and he didn't care. This was all of Sylvain's family. An absent mother, an abusive brother, and a neglectful, dismissive father.

Sylvain took a sharp intake of air. "Done." The expression on his face did not waver, not an inch, but Ingrid knew his breathing patterns. "I will leave tonight, then. Thank you for the audience, father."

He bowed. In one hand, he still clutched Phyllis' book, denting the pages with how tightly he held it. Ingrid had only just arrived. She would normally be allowed to rest and recover before leaving the estate, but it was clear; Sylvain was going to ride away from here, away from his father that night, even if he had to ride alone.

Ingrid had said nothing during this meeting, but as soon as they departed his office, she seized his shoulder and whirled him around to face her.

"Sylvain... What were you  _ thinking, _ making a promise like that?" she cried. "That's... It's... It's  _ cruel!" _

Sylvain’s eyes were wet, but he took her shoulders, the book pressed between them. "I'll fix this. I'll--I'll fix this. There's time. We have… we have time," he whispered.

Still, how could he hope to change the world? He was only one person, with a rotten reputation.

Ingrid hugged him fiercely. "Then... You're going to find a way to get out of it?" she asked, feeling a little shaky on her feet for some reason.

"Of course."

What he couldn't bear to tell Ingrid was that when his father spoke of rending the family of the loose branch, he meant every twig and leaf. If Miklan had managed children... He would be expected to dispose of them too.

"I don't--I don't know  _ how, _ but... I'll fix it."

"Sylvain... I'm coming with you," she insisted, pulling away. "Come on. Let's get out of this place. I can't stand it here."

They rode hard. Lady was exhausted halfway through. She was not necessarily a military horse. She was actually from Sreng, where the horses were smaller and more agile. She could carry Sylvain, but unlike other horses, couldn't carry much else and not for a long time. So they made camp at the side of the road.

All the while, Ingrid was quiet as she built up a fire. Then, "Tell me," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"That I make powerful friends and... I don't know. Unseat his ass."

Sylvain was splitting the firewood, letting Lady rest while she stared up at a squirrel as if it would be an excellent snack. He sat down beside Ingrid, his chin falling to his knees. Given his age and his distress, he was a bit scruffy. He hadn't thought to pack a razor, and he knew for a fact that Ingrid wouldn't ever touch one.

"You really are a hero, you know that?"

She shook her head. "Not yet," she smiled. "But I'm proud of you, you know?"

It was not the last time she told him she was proud. But considering she hadn't said it to him once before the party with Felix, each time was special.

  
  


Sylvain trained with not only her but several of the Knights of Fhirdiad over the next few months. King Rufus had welcomed him personally, but not once had he seen hide nor hair of the previous prince... Now demoted to Duke.

And every damned day he missed Felix like a severed limb. They'd barely gone two weeks without seeing each other before now. And it had been so long. A quarter year, half a year went by, and his dreams of Felix were even becoming hazy... Like he was forgetting what he looked like.

But at the same time, he grew. He became used to the routine. Every time he looked in the mirror, there was a new bruise, a finely honed muscle to be proud of. He had beaten most of the Knights, and even Ingrid once or twice on a couple very good days.

He moved to the sword. Learned a bit of the bow from sweet Ashe. He felt proud of himself, little by little. He was going to show Felix, show his father, show them all.

And now when people looked at him, there was surprise mingled in the lust. They hadn't expected him to excel. They hadn't expected him to  _ work. _ Served them right.

But... It began to weigh heavilyy on him too. This was not who he was. Not really. He wasn't like Ingrid, who enjoyed nothing more than a grueling training routine. And it was one night when he was waiting for Ingrid to come back that a man stole quietly into the training grounds with him.

Sylvain had never seen him before; perhaps he was a knight that had returned from duty. A large, handsome frame, but hunched over as if in agony. He was missing an eye, Sylvain supposed, since it was covered by cloth.

He froze when he saw Sylvain, clearly expecting to be alone. His golden hair and blue eye shone in the moonlight.

"Who's there?"

Sylvain had been quietly working on maintaining the weapons. It wasn't like he was seeing anyone at night anymore. Not that there was no one willing this time, but more that Sylvain found himself utterly exhausted. When he was captivated by need, by hungry lust, he had no time, or his body was too exhausted for the activities of intimacy. He longed for it in many ways, tough, hungry for the feeling of skin against skin. The reassurance of not awakening alone.

Still, the voice shook him from his misery, and he stared. What a threatening silhouette; menacing. The Lance of Ruin vibrated in his hands, and he spun to face the newcomer. "Who goes there?"

"I believe I asked first," the man retorted, but he seemed to soften--probably thinking that no one who might break in to steal a weapon would be taking the time to polish it. "You... What weapon is that?" His accusatory tone became curious and he stepped forward.

"This old thing?" Sylvain asked, pretending to look at it incredulously. "Just the Lance of Ruin.” He leaned on it, so desperate for the interaction he fell back on an old habit. "You come around here often?"

The man looked at the Lance of Ruin with awe. He'd probably never seen a Relic before. "I... suppose I do," he breathed, awestruck but not picking up on Sylvain's line. "Usually no one is around this late. You must be Margrave Gautier's son."

"Afraid so," Sylvain said. "My name is Sylvain Jose Gautier, if you want to know the rest." He was not only his last name.

The man looked up. "My apologies," he said quietly. "I... Never knew his son's name." Well that was odd. Everyone knew the reputation of Sylvain Jose Gautier. 

"You want to touch it?" Sylvain winked as the Lance wriggled toward the figure, as if responding to him.

"You shouldn't offer others the chance to touch a Hero's Relic," the stranger went on. "It might harm someone without a Crest."

“Fair enough.” He stuck the lance upright in his sand, smearing his hands on his trousers. His knees cracked as he levered himself to stand. One hand reached out to the stranger, giving him one of his winning smiles. It was so nice to speak to someone he could just begin anew with. And in the low light, the stranger really was lovely. Who would have an eyepatch so young? Who  _ was  _ he?

The young man hesitated but he did eventually reach for his hand and shake. His grip was like iron, but Sylvain noted that it seemed unintentional. He still did not offer his name.

"Since you're here," he said quietly. "Do you think we could spar? I'd be eager to see how one wields a Holy Relic."

"Yeah!" Sylvain was a bit too eager, his brown eyes lighting up. "Yeah, I'd like that. Did you bring a weapon?" He wasn't going to press his luck with his name, though his brain was filling it in with ‘handsome,’ which was not really a proper way to address any stranger, though it was in Sylvain's nature.  _ Was, _ he reminded himself, though the epithet sat on his tongue like a favorite hard candy.

He offered him one of the steel lances--iron or wood wouldn't be fair against the Lance of Ruin, even in the best hands.

The stranger smiled a little bit, a tiny thing, and took the lance with a grateful nod. Like most fighters of Faerghus, he was honorable in waiting for Sylvain to prepare, but he also offered a bow as if this were a duel of old. A bit old-fashioned, but somehow endearing.

Sylvain didn't know what happened. One moment he was admiring the man's golden bowed head, the next he was on the floor with a deep pain blooming in his chest, the Lance of Ruin spinning yards away from his grasp. Jeez, who was this guy? He could usually hold his own against Ingrid for a while, and she was the strongest person he knew.

"By the Goddess, I'm so sorry!"

The stranger appeared over him, offering a large hand. "I didn't mean... I just got so eager... Please forgive me..."

Sylvain coughed and gave a deep wheeze for air. Did he just... black out a second? Maybe he was just distracted? Tired? "S'fine! Wow, you uh... you pack quite a punch, buddy, let's try that again..."

Back on his feet, however wobbly, Sylvain rolled his shoulders, collected the Lance of Ruin. He was just rusty. Just rusty, that was all.

The stranger looked doubtful, like he was afraid to hurt Sylvain again, which was, frankly, a little bit insulting. This time, he backed up, letting Sylvain strike him first. Maybe Sylvain was irritated but he swung the lance as he usually did--only to, again, find himself flat on his back, several yards away.

He sputtered and stared up at his sheepish, fretting opponent. Had he used magic on him? No, there wasn't the mark of  _ Thoron _ or any other spell cooked into his skin, his clothing. He had just knocked Sylvain aside with a practice lance like a rag doll.

"Uh.... can I just... watch you for a second?" He gestured to the training dummy, standing innocently nearby.

The stranger looked horrified, his single eye wide and his lance pointed downwards at the ground in surrender, submission. "I... I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry." He shook his head. "This is why no one wants to spar with me... Are you all right? Should I fetch a healer?" He looked so pitiful.

"No, no, I'm fine," Sylvain wheezed, hand on his chest as he caught his breath. "Just had the wind knocked completely out of me.  _ Seiros. _ Go ahead, let me just... watch. And maybe sit down." Was it that his form was so much better? That's usually what Felix hammered on about.

The man shuffled his feet, clearly anxious, even shy. Seeing someone as big and strong as this stranger like that was... Sort of cute. If he just pulled his hair back from where it hung limply in his face, Sylvain was sure he'd be glowing.

"All right, then..."

He went about what was clearly his usual routine. He seemed nervous to have an audience, but after a moment or two, he stopped looking over at the bench and began to focus.

It was unlike anything Sylvain had ever seen. He had thought perhaps it was just raw power that struck him down twice, but no. This man's form, the precise way in which he struck, the accuracy and alacrity of his body as he cut down... It was like watching some warrior's dance. He even seemed to be excellent with his control, concentrating as he punched through the air with the point of his lance, so quick that Sylvain heard the air whistle as though torn. The lance was not a weapon but the rest of his arm, as flexible and intuitive as one's own hand.

As it went on, he grew increasingly faster until he was a blur of a man in Faerghus blue. He couldn't be any older than Sylvain or Ingrid, yet he moved like a master. And when he was done, he did not sweat or pant. He wasn't even tired after all that. This was a man Felix would endeavor to become. Would respect in the utmost.

The poor wooden dummy he was practicing on fell to tatters, the wood splintered and twisted, as if the only reason it held together for so long was because the man had been hitting it back into place.

Normally, Sylvain would whistle, whoop, clap, something. Instead, he just stared, slack-jawed, in awe. "...Where... where did you learn that? Who taught you?"

The man looked over. "My father," he finished quietly, in that tone that suggested the man was no longer around. "He was... He was incredible," he mumbled, taking to the bench beside Sylvain and reaching for an oiled rag to wipe off his blade with.

Sylvain’s face softened, and he dared to reach out, to squeeze this stranger's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sure he was an amazing man, if you're anything to go by." Sylvain wished he could relate to having a father he would miss, as he tried to give him his best smile. "What brings you here so late? Why haven't I seen you training during the day? You could wipe the floor with those smug-ass recruits."

The stranger allowed himself a little bit of a prideful smile. "Yes... Unfortunately, I..." His smile died as much as the light in his eye. "I am quite unpopular here. I thank you for spending time with me. It has been a while since anyone spoke to me at all."

"I can relate," Sylvain stretched his legs. "Though I can't imagine why in your case. You're incredible, and you're gorgeous, so like... what would stop them?" He huffed, "I fucking hate people." It carried a venom that didn't seem to match the rest of him.

The stranger smiled. "Well, I think you are kind. You must be, to have put up with me for as long as you have. And to let me near you after one hit," he chuckled a bit nervously. He stood and offered his hand, shaking his. "Thank you. Perhaps we will meet again."

When he left the training grounds, Sylvain realized he never got his name. Ingrid arrived a few minutes later, looking weary but ready to go. "What are you grinning for?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"I just got my ass kicked by a cute blonde who wasn't you," he said with a wink, leaning his chin on his hand like a daydreaming schoolboy. "Seriously, I'm pretty sure he left a bruise on my heart." It might have just been a line, but he parted his blouse to show the bruise proudly.

Ingrid's eyes went wide. "Holy  _ shit, _ Sylvain," she breathed, and Ingrid never swore. "You should get that looked at. Soon. How the hell did that happen? You better not have been slacking off." He'd come so far in half a year that she'd be upset if he stopped now.

"No, no, I told you, a gorgeous blonde boy built like an oak tree did it. Look what he did to the equipment! I count myself lucky." He gestured at the pile of wood that used to be a training dummy. "How he did that with only one eye is a miracle, really."

Ingrid was inspecting his chest when she suddenly stopped, glancing at the smithereens of the dummy and then slowly back to Sylvain. "One eye...? Sylvain, you  _ idiot. _ That's the former crown prince of Faerghus. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd."

Sylvain couldn't help but just stare dumbly at her. "...What?"

The prince of Faerghus--the duke, he guessed--was a thin, reedy, pale thing that huddled along the sides of the walls during festivals, his hair cut into a ridiculous bowl, not that handsome lion of a man.

Well... if he squinted... perhaps...

Oh goddess, it  _ was _ him, wasn't it?

_ "Sothis. _ He could have Blaiddyd-ed me into an early grave with one nudge, couldn't he?"

_ "Yes!" _ Ingrid groaned, but she was more worried about something else. "You flirted with him, didn't you? You did, I can tell!" She sat down and covered her face with her hands.  _ "Sylvaaaain...." _

"No!" he protested. "I sparred with him and--and he was really sad, and so I tried to cheer him up!" He sounded so hopeful.

Ingrid quickly backtracked. "Okay, okay... I believe you. I do." She winced. "Well... I think you should consider that an injury. You might feel okay now, but tomorrow it's going to be hell."

She escorted him back to his room, carrying the Lance of Ruin herself because she had a Crest even if she couldn't make it work. "Goddess... Did he not introduce himself at all? Wait, that actually makes sense." She winced, shaking her head. She lowered her voice as though conspiring. "He's had it so rough... Rufus has pretended to be kind, but he's spread so many lies about him. Told everyone he was crazy and dangerous. No one will talk to him now that he's been dethroned... Right after losing his parents too."

"I mean, I introduced myself; he never told me his name. What kind of things is he spreading about him? He seemed like a complete and utter gentleman." He thought of the man, so anxious and halting, and then of the utter destruction he wrought. "He  _ did  _ tell me no one wanted to spar with him. I mean, other than injury..."

"Well, you know the effect of the Blaiddyd Crest, right?" she asked, scratching the back of her head as they reached Sylvain's room and hovered outside of it. "I mean, it activates at random times, so because of that, people can get seriously hurt. If you were weaker, then you could have been actually injured. Because of that, no one wanted to train with him. And then the King has been..."

She looked around again, just in case.

"The King has been saying things like... That he's unhinged because of the loss of his family. That he's unfit to rule because of his grief. Even calls him mad." She rolled her eyes. "He's not. I've tried to be around him, but he's just sort of... Melancholy? I mean, I would be too if I lost my family and no one wanted to be around me."

Sylvain rubbed at his chest, clearly aching in a way that not even Ingrid would understand. "Yeah. I don't know how I'd go on living like that," he said, laughing mirthlessly. "Do you know where he stays? In the barracks, or...?"

Ingrid shrugged. "I mean, he's still a Duke, so I assume somewhere nicer." As a Knight, she didn't stay in the barracks but actually had her own room to stay in while she was in Fhirdiad. "I... Actually think someone like you might be good for him. Hang out with him if you can." She usually begged him to stay away from people, not the other way around.

"I think," Sylvain spoke softly, in a tender way that Ingrid rarely heard. "I think so, too. I'll seek him out in the morning."

And indeed he did. His chest was black and blue, which the other knights noted and commented on, but he was surprisingly unaffected, thoughts consumed with his strange new companion. He finally just asked one of the other knights, unable to locate him.

"Have you seen the Duke about?"

"Yeah," one of them mentioned casually. "He was hanging around Gilbert before he departed."

Unfortunately, by 'the Duke,' they had thought he meant Duke Fraldarius, Felix's father. Sylvain hadn't seen Rodrigue in a very long time, and he worried Felix might have said nasty things about him (not that he ever really spoke to his father). But Rodrigue greeted him with an endearing smile and moved in for a hug.

"Sylvain, my boy!" he cried, embracing him and clapping a hand on his shoulder. "How have you been?"

He melted a little to be hugged by Rodrigue. So many times he wished he had been Rodrigue's son instead. One of the many things he couldn't fathom about Felix was how he treated his father, but he was sure there was something he simply couldn't understand. Felix was stubborn, but he wasn’t usually unreasonable.

"I’m alright! I'm living here in Fhirdiad, training," he greet him cheerfully. "It's so wonderful to see you, it's been ages." He was a bit hesitant. "How is--how is Felix doing at Garreg Mach?"

Rodrigue beamed. "Well, he doesn't write me... But from what Ingrid says, he's having a good time!" It was clear Rodrigue didn't know there was a divide between his son and Sylvain. "I know he doesn't intend to be a knight... But I still think it's wonderful that he's training with them." He shrugged, chuckling a little bit.

It was strange to see such a shadow fall across Sylvain's face as his winning smile faltered. "He doesn't write me either, I understand. I'm… sure he's just busy."

Felix had never been so busy he couldn't write some note to Sylvain about something, no matter how scathing. Seven months now had passed without a glimpse or a word from Felix. The longest he and Sylvain had been apart since childhood.

"Strange..." Rodrigue frowned. "He couldn't keep quiet about you before he left."

Sylvain’s chinjerked up. "What did he say?" It came too quickly, his voice lifted, enough that others turned to look. He was desperate, hopeful for some crumb that maybe he… maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Felix hadn't meant his cruel words.

Rodrigue shrugged. "Nothing specific. He'd just find a way to mention you every now and then." His smile was knowing, perhaps too much so. "Is there, perhaps... Something in your future I should know about?"

Sylvain was back to a low voice and slumped shoulders. "No... I guess not. He--he doesn't have much thought for me these days. But I'm doing my best to change that."

Rodrigue knew, peripherally, of the tension between the Margrave and his remaining son. As neighbors, they worked together often. He remembered young Miklan's banishment after too many close calls. He remembered a soaked, half-frozen Sylvain on his tenth birthday, promising he would be better. There was little difference here, seeing the boy before him, trying so hard. The question was who he was trying to be better  _ for. _

Rodrigue squeezed his shoulder. He was a busy man, but he liked Sylvain, adored him like a son. He'd already lost one himself, after all.

  
  


Sylvain never found the former prince, not that day, nor a week after, when he finally stopped looking. Even waiting in the training grounds until after dark... Nothing. He was beginning to think it was a fluke.

But at least here, he had no shortage of training partners, and he was getting better and better. Felix would have been proud... If he even cared to know.

Winter in Faerghus sucked--no other word for it. But it helped when learning tactics, keeping him indoors. Being in Fhirdiad, however, made it difficult to avoid the social season. So many having fun, flirting, laughing, forming connections... All things Sylvain longed to do. Ingrid, now that she could see he was really going to try, refused to let him join in.

The beginning of spring was when everyone traveled to Garreg Mach to pay their respects to the Archbishop, make pilgrimages to the Monastery, and the Knights searched for promising new candidates to train.

Ingrid specifically requested time off to go with him.

"I heard that's where Prince Dimitri went," she said. She often pretended to forget he wasn't a prince anymore. No one liked Rufus as a King but Ingrid seemed to have a special devotion to Dimitri for some reason. "He went to help the Archbishop. Probably to get away from that awful man."

While they were alone on the road, she could badmouth Rufus all she liked.

Sylvain was silent for a long time. He couldn't forget the former Prince, a beautiful lion of a man, behaving as if he was a wounded fawn, his head ducked, ashamed of something he should not apologize for. He knew that behavior, recognized it.

"Ingrid," he said quietly. "Rufus, I mean… he's just awful, right? He doesn't--" He was quiet for a bit longer. "It's not like the King…  _ hurts _ his nephew, right?" After all, he was no stranger to familial violence. He let Lady set their pace, rubbing her neck when she eyed squirrels with particular hunger, promising her snacks later. "I mean, how did he lose his eye?"

Ingrid was quiet for a moment, idly stroking the long neck of Stormgale, her own steed (dramatically named after the horse of a Lady Knight of old she admired). "Honestly, I don't know, Sylvain," she frowned. "He wasn't present at the Tragedy of Duscur. He was only thirteen then. He lost his eye soon after but... No one knows how."

Her tone was dark. Clearly she believed it was possible Rufus had done something to hurt him. After all, Dimitri had then fallen into Rufus' custody, and it was strange that there were so many different stories about how he'd lost the eye. So many different accounts as if to throw off the truth of it.

Sylvain was quiet then--a strange thing indeed for Sylvain to be. He was usually all chatter and sunshine, now dark as the storm over their head. It wasn't until they made camp again that he spoke, and even then, it was just inane things. ‘Where do you want your bedroll?’ ‘Here, let me feed Stormgale.’

That night, he did not dream. Sylvain stayed up with the horses, who huddled around the tent. Ingrid could pick out his silhouette in the flashes of lightning as he tended them, petting their noses as he sat by the tent flap.

He was nervous. Of course he was; at the end of this journey was either absolution or failure.

Ingrid joined him as the storm, distant before, now rolled in. The tests were being held the next day. And there would be more than just one. It was a process of elimination. There'd be about fifty candidates. Maybe more. And by the end? They might,  _ might  _ pick ten.

"Hey." She smiled for him, brushing Stormgale's hide. "You're going to make it. You're amazing. You've done so well... You've worked so hard and you've come farther than anyone else thought you would." She paused. "What I'm saying is... Even if you don't pass the test, you've already proven everyone wrong."

"But I haven't," Sylvain protested. "Not if--" He hugged his knees, burying his nose where they met, lost in a mop of red hair. He was still for a moment as it was clear he was desperately scraping together the armor he needed to keep going, to not utterly come apart before his best friend. By the time he lifted his head and rested his chin on his knees, he was grinning.

"I definitely want you to say that in writing though, I'll have it hung over my bed. ‘Sylvain Jose Gautier is not a good-for-nothing.’ In fancy font." He was trying so hard, even now, to make her smile.

Ingrid set the brush down, sat beside him. She did not join in his smile. She stared at him, hard and serious.

"Sylvain, the only thing I have ever seen you work at is coaxing someone out of their clothes. I didn't think you'd last two weeks, let alone eleven  _ months. _ It's almost been a year since that night, you know. A year since you've seen him." She didn't have to say who. "And I know," she said softly. "If he'd seen what I saw over the year, he'd be eating his words. He'd... He'd be proud of you too. Whether you pass or not."

She kept insisting on that part. That there was still the possibility of failure. Sylvain had talent, of course… But what she really didn't want him to know was that his Crest would factor in more than anything else. If he found that out, he'd lose all his confidence again, that he couldn't change his own fate, that it was dictated by something he couldn't control, that he never asked for.

"You're going to pass. If it isn't tomorrow, it'll be in the fall when they hold the tests again, okay? This isn't the end no matter what. But please... Don't lose courage now. You've come so far."

She reached for his hand, squeezed it tight.

Sylvain turned his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze, smile lopsided as he gave a frightened little laugh. "I guess I'll believe you."

While Sylvain didn't remember falling asleep, he did remember waking up with the horses halfway into the tent, and the dawn filling him with a new hope. They would reach the monastery in just a few hours. "Last one to the Monastery is a rotten egg," he whispered in Ingrid's ear, and took off with Lady--it was the first time she had seen him so excited in almost eleven months.

  
  


Today--today he was going to see Felix. Today he was going to prove himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...

Hello everyone,

Unfortunately, this fic has been canceled, due to the absent interest of the rp partner I had to continue it. I'm sorry to those who hoped it would go on, however, this fic in particular will be sort of restyled and revamped under a different author on A03 with my own ideas and a few new rp partners I have befriended (with all the same ships you know and love)! I've not yet made the new profile yet, so if you wish to follow the newer version of this fic, I'll have it posted on my twitter @Mechanist_Macha so be on the lookout for that as well!

Thank you so much for the comments and the kudos, I appreciate you all so much and I hope you keep reading! <3333


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